


Castiel and the Phantom of the Opera

by afaithfulwriter890



Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Angel Dean Winchester, Angel of Music, Angst, Bottom Castiel, Crossover, Dark Dean Winchester, Dean with demon tendencies, Destiel - Freeform, Disfigured Dean, Disfigurement, F/M, False Angel, Feels, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel, Human Meg, Hurt Dean Winchester, Love, Love Triangles, Love/Hate, M/M, Megstiel - Freeform, POV Castiel, Phantom Dean, Possessive Dean, Possessive Dean Winchester, The Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, Top Dean, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:59:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afaithfulwriter890/pseuds/afaithfulwriter890
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I am your angel . . . Come to me angel of music."</p><p>At those words, Castiel was lost. The angel's voice called to him in such a manner that Castiel could not bare to resist. As if he were in a trance, Castiel strode toward the masked figure in the mirror. The blond man with evergreen eyes stared back at him, beckoning him forward with an outstretched hand and his sweet song.</p><p>"I am your angel of music. Come to me angel of music."</p><p>----</p><p>Castiel Novak, a talented young opera singer suddenly finds himself in the spotlight with the help of a mysterious "angel of music" that visits him and not only mentors him in singing, but also guides him and helps in any way he can. Castiel is determined to meet his angel and finally see who he really is. However, when an old flame turns up from the past, Castiel is caught in a love triangle between his childhood sweetheart and the dark, eccentric and possessive Angel of Music that may just be a figment of his imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chandelier

**Author's Note:**

> JUST A NOTE: I WILL be posting lyrics in this story, that is lyrics from the musical "The Phantom of the Opera." I want to say right now that I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP for those lyrics! I may alter them slightly just so they fit the story better (example: Dean won't be singing to Christine, he'll be singing to Castiel so I'll change the names). However, I IN NO WAY claim them as my own. I completely give credit to where credit is due. I do not own Supernatural, nor do I own "The Phantom of the Opera."

**Paris, 1903**

* * *

 

            A cold, icy wind ruffled the hair of an aging gentleman. He was dressed in fine clothing – clearly showing off his wealth. As he climbed out of an elevated carriage, he was assisted by a woman, presumably his wife. She looked to be about his age – maybe a few years younger – and while she was past her prime, she still had an intangible beauty. It was in the way she carried herself, the way she walked, and the light that shone brightly in her crystalline eyes. Her hair was mousy and pulled back in a tight bun. Her piercing blue eyes were bright, but also cold. There was a stoniness there – a hardness that was the result of many years of hardship and suffering. Then again, she had seen more than most. She helped her husband into a wheelchair and then proceeded to push him to the steps that led up to the opera house.

            Waiting for assistance, the woman looked up at the massive pillars in front of the building and the intricate arches above them. The opera house itself was an architectural masterpiece – back in the day, it was even more glorious. The windows that once sported posters of the night’s opera were not black and boarded up. The large mahogany door that had once shone with polish was now weathered and worn.

            Three men descended the steps to assist the woman in getting her husband up to the door. They greeted the couple courteously and with great respect, calling them Monsieur and Madame Winchester. The men continued to flatter Madame Winchester as they carried her husband’s wheelchair up the five steps to the door. Neither batted an eye at the flattery and were silent as they ascended to the opera house. Once they were escorted inside, Madame Winchester slipped them a few francs and proceeded to wheel her husband into the main hall.

            Both Winchesters were appalled by the conditions of the interior, Madame Winchester especially. She had attended operas there when the theatre was thriving with life – when opera was a spectacular event for the elite, when it was full of soul and passion and pure talent. She remembered the opera house when it was in its glory; she remembered it vividly. In fact, she remembered _everything_ that happened in that opera house with impeccable accuracy. After all, the events that occurred there were not something one would forget. Even her husband – his body a centimeter from death, but his mind still as sharp as a needle – remembered the ordeal as if it were yesterday.

            Leaves were strewn across the floor of the main hall, and there was a slightly unpleasant odor in the air. It smelled dark and musty, and had an ominous accompaniment. Madame Winchester felt a shiver go up her spine. She had not thought about the tragedy or the phantom in years. She knew that returning here would bring back the memories, but she did not think that they would be so painful. As they proceeded into the main hall, they heard the voice of an auctioneer in the distance.

            “And here we have a poster of _Don Juan Triumphant_ , an opera put on during the night of the great tragedy that occurred here almost thirty years ago. A few of you may remember hearing of that peculiar night, however that is not why we are here. The poster itself is in excellent condition. It has few blemishes, rips, creases, or stains. May I start the bidding at 10 francs?”

            Madame Winchester wheeled her husband into the room where the auction was set up. They arrived just in time to see the poster be sold at 15 francs. Upon their entry, a few people gave the elderly couple looks, but the Winchesters ignored it. Monsieur Winchester even felt a sharp bite of bitterness rise in his heart at their judgmental gazes. If anyone had a right to be there, it was them. They were there when it happened. They witnessed it all. If only those youths knew the true horror of what happened. If they did, they would most likely be traumatized; the Winchesters nearly were.

            “Next we have number 665, a music box topped with a monkey dressed in Persian robes, playing the cymbals,” the auctioneer informed, gesturing to the piece that was being held by an assistant.

            The assistant stepped forward so all could see the item. “Showing here,” he called, mostly for tradition’s sake. The Winchesters immediately had their eyes glued to the music box.

            “The music box is still in working order, ladies and gentleman!  Fredrick, would you mind demonstrating for us?”

            The assistant wound up a small crank on the side of the box. Then, the money began to play. While the cymbals did not come together, a beautiful, soft, happy melody drifted from it. It was a twinkling sound – almost like the stars if they were to make noise. At least that was what Madame Winchester could compare it to.

            “Can we start the bidding at 20 francs?” the auctioneer inquired.

            Monsieur and Madame Winchester exchanged a knowing look, and Madame Winchester raised her hand.

            “Thank you, Madame,” the auctioneer said, dipping his head to her. “Do I hear 25 francs?”

            A young man that stood across from the Winchesters raised his hand. He was younger than most of the other people there. He had light blond hair and bright, pure, blue eyes. He stared at the Winchesters with an odd expression on his face. Monsieur Winchester stared back, unblinking, and with a challenging expression.

            “Thank you, sir!” the auctioneer trilled. He then looked back to the Winchesters, expecting them to raise their bid. “Do I hear 30 francs?”

            Madame Winchester raised her hand again on her husband’s behalf.

            “Thank you, Madame. Do I hear 35?”

            This time, the blond boy shook his head. Instead, he looked at the Winchesters again. There was a curiosity in his eyes – unspoken questions that Monsieur Winchester had a feeling he was going to hear at some point that afternoon.

            “Going once . . . twice . . . Sold! Madame, may you hold up your number, please?”

 

            She did as she was requested and the music box was transferred to Monsieur Winchester’s hands. He stared at the monkey situated on top of the box, and let out a shuddering sigh. Emotion began to bubble up in his chest. A young man came to mind – a man with hair as black as night and with eyes as deep a blue as the ocean. Then, he saw another man in his mind – a man with untidy blond hair and an intense, evergreen gaze. He closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, he stared at the monkey, his eyes becoming rather moist. “Here it is . . .” he whispered. “Every detail . . . exactly as he described . . . I wonder . . . Will you still play when the rest of us are dead? Will you outlive us all little music box?”

            “Excuse me . . . Monsieur?”

            Monsieur Winchester looked up to see the young blond boy from across the room. Monsieur Winchester narrowed his eyes at the blond boy. He looked up for his wife only to find her absent. He returned his attention to the boy. “What do you want?” he asked gruffly.

            “My name is Adam Milligan,” the boy informed. “I’m writing a novel based of the legendary phantom of the opera, and I was wondering—”

            “I have nothing to say on the matter,” Monsieur Winchester cut him off. Briefly, his lips twitched in a bittersweet smile, though. _Legendary . . . Who’d have ever thought that you’d be a legend, Dean?_ he thought. However, the humor – the nostalgia – was very brief. Thought of this made his chest ache; it was as if a gaping hole had been gouged into his chest . . . Then again, it always felt like this when he thought of _him_. “Please . . . leave me now. I am . . . not prepared to speak on this matter. My health is failing and I really do not think that this is the time to talk of such awful things.”

            “Sir, I just have a few questions, that’s all,” Adam persisted. His eyes were bright with a hope that Monsieur Winchester had not seen in a long time. He had not seen such hope – such wide-eyed naïveté – since . . .

            “Excuse me,” the voice of Madame Winchester cut into the conversation. She strode over to them with surprising grace, especially for a woman of her age. “Sorry, my love,” she whispered to her husband. “I was paying for your music box.” She then turned her attention to Adam. Her eyes were particularly cold as she gazed at him. “My husband requested that you leave him alone. I suggest that you do so now. Please. I do not wish to argue.” While she spoke with politeness, there was a warning in her voice.

            “Of course, Madame,” Adam said, bowing slightly. “I apologize for any discomfort, or for any problems I may have caused. I meant no harm.”

            “Yes, I know. We do not wish to be bothered right now – especially about . . . _that_ subject.”

            Adam nodded, apologized again, and retreated to some dark corner to lick his wounds.

            “Number 666,” the auctioneer continued. “A chandelier completely restored!” The mention of the chandelier got the attention of both Winchesters. “Now, as I mentioned before, this piece was also involved in the tragedy of the affair of the phantom of the opera. This chandelier was directly involved in the famous disaster. Since then, it has been restored completely and fit with equipment for the electric light. Perhaps the whispers and echos of the past can be brought to rest with a little illumination. Gentlemen, would you please raise the chandelier now?”

            Monsieur and Madame Winchester watched as their past suddenly became the present once more. The sheets were drawn back to expose the beautiful and complex chandelier. A group of men hoisted it into the air. The electric lights that were now in place of the candles flashed to life. As the chandelier rose, Monsieur Winchester felt as if he was back in the time with the opera house was alive. The cobwebs, the leaves on the floor, the dust, the broken statues and chairs – they were all swiped away and replaced with liveliness and vigor. It was as if color was being restored to a world of black and white. Monsieur Winchester could perfectly picture the theatre in its full glory. But of course, he could not think of the theatre without thinking of the phantom.

            No, he couldn’t _not_ think of his tortured, disfigured brother and the angelic man that stole his heart.


	2. Castiel Could Sing It, Sir!

**Paris, 1870**

* * *

 

            The opera house was full of life – of color. People bustled about the stage with purpose. There were things that needed doing. After all, the show _was_ that evening. Everyone had jobs to do; everyone had to prepare in one way or another, even young Castiel Novak. He wasn’t a particularly important part of the show – he was just a background dancer – he still had to practice. Monsieur Winchester, the choreographer and mentor to all the male dancers, had them on a rigorous schedule.

            Castiel could hear rehearsal going on out on the main stage. The tell-tale voice of the theatre’s leading male singer, Meta Tronne, could be heard clearly. With graying hair and even balding spots, Meta Tronne was aging faster than he’d like. His voice was also beginning to suffer from the effect of age. It was only a matter of time before he retired, and it would be sooner than later.

            “He gets worse every time I hear the old bastard,” Balthazar, another dancer and Castiel’s good friend, muttered. Balthazar was older than Castiel with short, blond hair and stubble on his chin, jaw, and upper lip. The two stood backstage with the other male dancers as they prepared to go out on stage for the ballet that would take place the moment Meta Tronne finished his solo.

            Castiel smiled at his friend’s comment, but said nothing. He wasn’t the kind of person to say such things – Castiel’s father had always taught him to treat others with kindness no matter what. He told Castiel that you should only judge someone once you got to know them However, Castiel had no desire whatsoever to get to know Meta Tronne. The older man was nothing short of a diva. He was demanding, loud, occasionally vulgar, and all around disgusting. The only reason Meta Tronne was even _at_ the opera house to begin with was because of his voice. It was his only redeeming quality, and even then it wasn’t anything miraculous.

            “You could sing better than that, Cassie,” Balthazar joked. At last, Meta Tronne’s shrill voice was overshadowed by the booming roar of the chorus. Monsieur Winchester strode toward his dancers and began to direct them toward the stage, his face unreadable. Castiel locked eyes with his mentor before walking along, filing behind his fellow dancers. Almost everyone hated, respected, or feared Monsieur Winchester, but not Castiel. Castiel liked him. Not only that, but Monsieur Winchester seemed to like him as well. In fact, they were on a first name basis with each other. Castiel was the only person in the opera house that was allowed to call Monsieur Winchester by his first name: Sam. Everyone else had to stick to the strict formalities. And of course the only reason Castiel and Sam were so close – the only reason why Castiel could call Sam _friend_ – was _him._

            Castiel let out a breath before stepping out on the stage. The moment his foot touched the stage floor, he wore a smile on his face. He began to leap and twirl in synchronization with the other male dancers. Balthazar performed next to him, not wearing a smile and not moving with a bounce in his step the way Castiel did. He did not dance with the same vigor his younger friend did.

            Dancing was not Castiel’s favorite thing – singing was – but he still performed to the best of his ability. He moved, flowing with the music. As he danced, he began to feel the distinct burn in his calves. He had long ago gotten used to that feeling and now took relish in it. It made him feel oddly good. He felt as if he was accomplishing something – it was the idea that hard work led to great things. Castiel enjoyed the fact that the burn meant that he was working – that he was doing well.

            To Castiel, all seemed to be going so well. The chorus kept singing in the background – their voices projecting out into the theatre. And then, he heard the maestro’s voice shouting above the voices of the chorus. “NO, NO, NO!” Everything – the singing, the dancing, and the orchestration came to a halt.  “Chorus, you’re off pitch! And Raphael, can you really not pronounce _Rome_ correctly? Honestly! It’s like working with imbeciles!”

            Raphael, the other notable male singer in the opera stepped forward. He glowered at the maestro, folding his arms across his chest. “I just feel like _Roma_ sounds better when I sing it,” he protested.

            “Well, the _lyric_ is _Rome._ Not _Roma._ I don’t care what you feel. That’s the problem with you actors – you always try to think! Stop thinking and _do!_ ” the maestro shouted in response.

            Castiel heard Balthazar snicker at his side, but didn’t dare crack a smile. He didn’t want the maestro’s wrath to suddenly be directed at him. The maestro was a very short, but a very loud man. He was always dressed in black, and had short black hair and a black beard to match. He was not a French native – but then again, there were few in the opera house that _were_ French – and sounded like he was from Scotland, or one of the other various English nations. His dark brown eyes were fierce and filled with a fire that could burn anyone that dared opposed him. As maestro, he also acted as a director for the performance; it was his job to make sure everything went well in the performance and all of the actors knew their lines, and their parts. It was a very stressful job and Castiel didn’t envy the poor man.

            “I thought he did fine,” Meta Tronne intervened. “It’s not like the audience will _know_ that the lyric is _Rome._ It should be up to the actor to decide whether or not to sing _Rome_ or _Roma_ , don’t you think?” He looked at the Maestro with a hard expression, as if daring him to disagree.

            The maestro dared. “Is that so, Monsieur Tronne?” he nearly sneered. His face was beginning to turn red with frustration.

            “I think Lucky the Leprechaun is going to combust,” Balthazar whispered in Castiel’s ear. Castiel had to smile at the mention of the maestro’s nickname. Even though he knew that it was a little cruel, it _was_ amusing since he was rather short and did _sound_ like your traditional leprechaun.

            “It is,” Meta Tronne answered.

            “Well, you know what—”

            “Monsieur Crowley!”

            The maestro stopped short and turned toward the numerous rows of empty seats. The rest of the people on stage did the same. Castiel had to stand on his toes in order to see over the shoulder of some of the taller dancers. The opera house’s owner, Monsieur Shurely, was walking swiftly down one of the aisles with two gentleman trailing behind him. One of them was very short – shorter than the maestro – and the other was a bit taller, average height really. Castiel could not make out any other specific details about them; they were too far away.

            “Monsieur Shurley,” Crowley greeted swiftly. “We were just having a discussion about the rehearsal.”

            “So I heard,” Monsieur Shurley answered. He led the two men up the stairs at the side of the stage and approached the maestro. “Is there a problem?” He looked between the maestro, Raphael and Meta Tronne. Castiel managed to squeeze between two of the male dancers so he could see the scene clearly now. Monsieur Shurley tapped his foot, waiting for an answer that didn’t seem to be coming.

            Castiel also now saw the two men with him. The short one had blond hair that was combed back from his face. He was relatively handsome and had eyes the color of bourbon. Although he was significantly shorter than pretty much everyone around him, he carried himself well and with a certain confidence that Castiel found himself admiring. The other, taller man was also older than his counterpart. While the short man seemed to be still fairly young – about Monsieur Winchester’s age – the taller man looked to be in his late forties, perhaps early fifties. His hair was very thin, and parts of his head could be seen peeking out between the ashy locks. His eyes were a chilling blue that made Castiel shiver. The short man looked approachable – friendly – but the tall man looked formidable. He looked like the last person you’d want to mess with and certainly not someone you’d want to be friends with.

            “No sir,” the maestro finally answered.

            “Good,” Monsieur Shurley said with an approving nod. “Now, I’m sure you all heard the rumors of my retirement.” He addressed the rest of the cast and crew now, looking out over them with an almost tired look in his eyes. Castiel could see the bags under his eyes and the wear and tear he had undergone while owning the opera house. It was not an easy job – not with _him_ always lurking in the shadows, watching and listening to everything. “And, I can now confirm that they are true.”

            There was a small outcry amongst the listeners. When they proceeded to protest and got louder as they did so, Monsieur Shurley tried to calm them down. When he found that he was helpless against them, he looked to Monsieur Winchester for help. The younger man gave him a curt not before slamming the cane he always carried with him down on the stage as hard as he could. The sound echoed throughout the theatre, making everyone go dead silent. Castiel swore that you could have heard a pin drop at that moment. Monsieur Winchester’s black cane was something to be feared. While he didn’t need it to walk – he was a young, healthy man that was barely thirty – he _did_ use it to keep his dancers in line. Whenever he found one of them – or a group of them – goofing off or not doing what they were told, he would beat them in the head with his cane. And the dancers were not the only members of the cast and crew to been at the other end of Monsieur Winchester’s cane; he went after anyone who was not doing their duty. And the cane was something to be feared.

            “Thank you, Monsieur Winchester,” Monsieur Shurley said, dipping his head. The younger man nodded and Monsieur Shurley continued. “Since I will be gone by tomorrow afternoon, I would like to introduce to you my replacements: Monsieur Gabriel Speight and Monsieur Zachariah Fuller. And Monsieurs, I would like to introduce you two to our top male singer and our main attraction for many years: Monsieur Meta Tronne.”

            Castiel watched as Meta Tronne stepped forward, smiling with his crooked, yellow teeth. He shook hands with Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller and thanked them for taking over for Monsieur Shurley. “I really must thank you from the bottom of my heart, gentlemen. If no one had taken over in Monsieur Shurley’s place, the opera house might have gone out of business. I am grateful to you both.”

            “Monsieur Tronne, why don’t you give Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller a demonstration of your voice?” Monsieur Shurley suggested.

            Meta Tronne smiled and nodded. “Of course! I’d be delighted.”

            “Oh God,” Balthazar groaned softly. “Do we have to stay for this?”

            “I don’t think it would be wise to leave,” Castiel whispered in response. “You’d get Monsieur Winchester’s cane . . . probably to the head.”

            “How about ‘Think of Me’?” Monsieur Shurley suggested, looking between Meta Tronne and the maestro. “Do you think that would be satisfactory?”

            “Of course,” the maestro replied through gritted teeth. He cued the orchestra to begin and Meta Tronne began to sing.

           

“ _Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we’ve said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in a while._

_Promise me you’ll try._

_When you find that once again you long_

_To—”_

 

            There was a loud sound, almost like thunder as one of the set backgrounds crashed down from above the stage. The heavy canvas hit Meta Tronne and sent him and a few others that had been standing to close to the ground. “Monsieur!” the owners – both new and old – cried as they ran to assist their star. Meta Tronne appeared to be trapped beneath the canvas, too weak to lift it to get out.

            “I bet it was _him_ ,” Balthazar said as they watched them attempt to get Meta Tronne and the others out from beneath the canvas. They moved clumsily and without order. It was actually sort of comical. Meta Tronne was shouting under the canvas like a young child throwing a temper tantrum while Monsieur Shurley, Monsieur Speight, and Monsieur Fuller rushed to appease him.

            “What?” Castiel asked, looking at his friend. His eyebrows were knit together in confusion.

            “You know. _Him_. The phantom. I bet he cut the wire and sent the background down on Meta Tronne’s head.”

            Castiel stiffened and instinctively looked up to the rafters above their heads. _Are you up there, phantom? Are you watching us?_

            At long last, they got Meta Tronne out from underneath the canvas. He was still in a fit.

            “Monsieur, please!” Monsieur Speight exclaimed, throwing his arms up in exasperation. “These things _do_ happen, you know.”

            Meta Tronne stared at him as if he’d gone a second head. “ _These things do happen?!_ ” he repeated in a rage. “ _Well, you know what? These things happen far too often for me! And you!_ ” he shouted, now turning his attention to Monsieur Shurley. “ _You have done nothing to stop them! So you two – Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller – you two better stop these things from happening, or this thing, DOES NOT!_ ”

            With that, he stormed off the stage. The rest of the cast and crew stood there, unfazed by this. Meta Tronne threw hissy fits like this far too often for anyone to really pay any attention to them, but Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller had never experienced anything like it before, not from a man and especially not from a man of Meta Tronne’s age.

            “Well, gentlemen,” Monsieur Shurley said with a forced smile. “Good luck. Here are the keys, have fun.”

            Before either of the new owners could protest, Monsieur Shurley was practically sprinting for the door. Castiel didn’t really blame him. If he had been the owner and he had to put up with all of that drama, he would want out too.

            The rest of the cast began to file off the stage as if nothing had happened. However, Monsieur Winchester and the male dancers lingered, mostly because Monsieur Winchester never gave them permission to leave. Castiel continued to watch as Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller spoke amongst themselves.

            “Well, fantastic,” Monsieur Speight muttered. “Now what are we going to do? The performance is _tonight_ , is it not?” He looked at the maestro for confirmation.

            “It is, sir.”

            “And now we don’t have a lead,” Monsieur Fuller grumbled. “Is there any way we might be able to persuade Monsieur Tronne to perform?”

            “I doubt it,” Monsieur Winchester suddenly spoke up. The new owners jumped at the sound of Sam’s deep voice. “Once Meta Tronne gets a thought in that bizarre, self-absorbed head of his, it does not readily leave.”

            “Great,” Monsieur Speight sighed.

            “Castiel Novak could sing it, sir!” Balthazar suddenly piped up.

            Castiel’s head snapped toward his friend, his blue eyes bulging. He stared at Balthazar in disbelief. Why would he say that? Why would he volunteer him to sing? Balthazar grabbed his friend’s shoulder and gently pushed him forward. Now, the new owners were looking at Castiel curiously, appraising him. Castiel gulped; he hated feeling like he was being examined.

            “I . . . I don’t know if . . .” Castiel began, but Monsieur Winchester cut him off.

            “Let him sing for you, Monsieurs,” the older man said with a nod. “Castiel here has been well-taught.”

            Monsieur Fuller didn’t look convinced, but Monsieur Speight looked prepared to try anything. “Who is your teacher, boy?”

            Heat rushed to Castiel’s cheeks. It was going to sound crazy. They were going to think that he was insane. “I . . . I do not know his name.”

            “ _Wonderful,_ ” Monsieur Fuller grumbled.

            “Please,” Monsieur Winchester persisted. “Just let him sing.”

            Monsieur Speight nodded. “Alright. Come up here, boy. Let’s see what you got.”

            Castiel stepped forward, but not before giving Balthazar a deathly glare. He was going to get his friend back for this one. As he walked to the middle of the stage, his heart was hammering in his chest. He could almost feel the blood sloshing wildly around in his veins. _Don’t forget to breathe, Castiel,_ he thought, taking in a deep breath.

            “Alright, shall we do the song Meta Tronne sang?” the maestro asked. To Castiel’s surprise, the maestro’s usual, sharp manner had been replaced by a surprisingly gentle and encouraging voice.

            Nodding Castiel gulped. He had heard this song numerous times, and he knew the words almost by heart. And still he was incredibly nervous. His pulse was racing and his breaths were coming in small, shallow gasps. As the melody began, he faltered, staring blankly at the empty chairs before him. _What are they like when they’re full of people . . . Oh, God. I could never sing in front of that many people . . ._

            “Castiel,” Monsieur Winchester’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Are you going to sing for these gentlemen or not?”

            He gulped and nodded.

            The melody restarted and Castiel began in a shaky voice:

 

“ _Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we’ve said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in a while._

_Promise me you’ll try._

_When you find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free._

_If you ever find a moment,_

_Spare a thought for me._ ”

 

            By the end of the song, Castiel’s voice had strengthened significantly. The more he sang, the more confident he seemed to become. He could feel both Balthazar’s and Monsieur Winchester’s gazes on him, and he wanted to make them proud, and he certainly didn’t want to embarrass them in front of the new owners. By the end of the verse, he felt comfortable. He could have gone on and sang the entire thing but Monsieur Speight raised his hand for him to stop.

            “I believe we’ve heard enough, eh Zachariah?”

            Monsieur Fuller nodded. “You’ll do.”

 


	3. The Angel of Music

_“Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we’ve said goodbye._

_Remember me, once in a while._

_Promise me you’ll try._

_When you find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free._

_If you ever find a moment,_

_Spare a thought for me._

_We never said our love was evergreen_

_Or as unchanging as the sea_

_But if you can still remember,_

_Stop and think of me._

_Think of all the things_

_We’ve shared and seen._

_Don’t think about the way_

_Things might have been._

_Think of me, think of me waking_

_Silent and resigned._

_Imagine me trying too hard_

_To put you from my mind._

_Recall those days, look back on all those times._

_Think of those things we’ll never do._

_There will never be a day_

_When I won’t think of you!_ ”

            Castiel Novak’s voice reverberated off the walls of the theatre as he sang. When he finished, the crowd erupted in cheers and applause. Castiel smiled courteously and bowed. The crowd cheered even louder at this and began to toss white roses up onto the stage.

            While Castiel continued to bow and the crowd whooped and screamed his name, a young woman sat up in Box 5, staring down at the stage with a stunned expression. She was a few years older than Castiel – about twenty three – and had long dark brown hair that fell to her shoulder blades. She stared at the man on stage with a glazed look in her chocolate brown eyes. _Can it be?_ she thought in wonder. _Can it be him?_

            As she stared at him, her mind transported her back to an earlier and simpler time. It was a time when she had been very young, and very foolishly in love with her messy-haired, blue-eyed neighbor. She remembered playing in his backyard and running through the fields of flowers with him. She remembered going to his house and hiding in the attic with him, listening to his father play the violin. She remembered resting her head on his shoulder and listening to his soft, husky voice whisper dark tales of fantasy that he conjured up some late night when sleep would not come to him. She remembered her first kiss – a peck on the lips – but it was special for many reasons. One, it was her first kiss. Two, it came from _him._ It came from Castiel Novak.

            She stood up and threw a white rose down toward the stage. “Bravo, Monsieur!” she shouted, waving her arm. She knew that he would not see or hear her – everyone was shouting at him. Everyone was calling his name.

            _He probably doesn’t even remember me,_ she thought. _But I remember him._

            “Mademoiselle!”

            She turned to see the two new theatre owners: Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller. She gave them a forced smile before turning her attention back to the singer on stage. When she heard that Monsieur Shurley was finally retiring and handing the place off to someone else, she immediately set up a meeting with the two new owners. She had always financed the opera house when Monsieur Shurley ran things, even though she had never actually attended. It was a tradition in her family, actually. Every generation would always give a fair sum of money to the opera house each month, sometimes more than that the usual standard when ticket sales plummeted. When she wrote the two new owners, they replied by sending her a ticket, imploring her to come see the show. Of course, it was all just a ploy to get her to give them more money, and she was aware of it. But she had to admit that she loved the show, especially after she saw its star. Now knowing that Castiel was working at the opera house, she actually found herself inclined to give more money than usual. Perhaps Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller knew more than they appeared to.

            “Bonjour,” she greeted them, still smiling down at Castiel. She knew that she was being rude, but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t look away from him. By now, the applause had died down and he had begun to sing again. His low tenor voice reverberated off the walls of the opera house and filled her soul with a sense of longing and wonder. “How are you?” she asked the two men absently.

            “We are well, Mademoiselle,” Monsieur Fuller replied. They entered the box and stepped up to the balcony beside her. They too began to watch Castiel as he sang. He stood in one place the entire time, but his voice was absolutely captivating.

            “Please,” the woman said. Her voice sounded softer and more thoughtful than usual – Castiel’s voice was practically making her breathless. “Call me Meg.”

            “Do you like the show, Mad—Meg?” Monsieur Speight queried. Even his eyes were glued to Castiel.

            “I do . . . Monsieurs, you must tell me: who is your star?” she asked, motioning to the dark-haired man on stage.

            “His name is Castiel Novak,” Monsieur Fuller explained. “He’s a replacement – a new kid, but he’s good it seems.”

            “Good?” Meg chortled. “He’s brilliant.”

            “He used to be a dancer,” Monsieur Speight threw in. “I’ve never seen him dance, but he sure can sing – I’ll give him that.”

            “Really?” Meg asked, genuinely surprised by this news. She couldn’t imagine Castiel leaping and twirling about like a ballerina. The image was actually rather comical to her. When they were children, Castiel had been gawky and awkward – he certainly never hinted that he possessed the grace to be a dancer. _Then again, I didn’t think he could sing either,_ Meg thought. _He’s changed a lot since we were children . . . We both have._

            With a heavy heart, she remembered the last time saw her friend. It had been right after the death of Castiel’s father – her mother had encouraged her to go next-door and speak with him before he had to leave for Paris. Castiel was shaken – a shell of his former self. He hardly spoke to her when she visited – he hardly spoke to anyone. All he did was sit in the attic of his house and stare out the small, circular window at the sea.  He’d watch the waves slam against the shore and then retreat back into the ocean, only to return again to batter the sand once more. A few days after Meg had seen him, Castiel was gone and his house had been sold.

            Meg had been told that since both of his parents were dead, Castiel was being sent to an opera house in Paris to work as a member of the stage crew until he was old enough to go out on his own. Meg never imagined that he’d become a singer or a dancer.

            Castiel finished his song and the crowd roared with approval. Meg and Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller joined them, clapping vigorously. Meg even let out a whoop of encouragement. As she continued to stare at Castiel, she could have sworn that he was shining – glowing under the lights of the stage. She had to see him before the night was over. She wanted to see him – to hear his voice speak her name and to feel his arms wrap around her in a friendly hug. She would have to ask the new owners if she could go back stage and speak with him later.

            “So, Mademoiselle Masters,” Monsieur Fuller said, gently taking her by the upper arm. He led her away from the balcony and toward the box’s exit. “About our proposal . . .”

            “Ah, yes,” Meg murmured thoughtfully. “I suppose we ought to work out the details before it gets too late.”

 

\- - - -

 

            “Castiel, you were brilliant!”

            “Absolutely marvelous!”

            “Castiel!”

            “Who’d have ever thought it!”

            “Did you hear the crowd go wild?”

            “They loved you!”

            “Our star!”

            “Oh, I wish I could see the look on Meta Tronne’s face now!”

            The last voice belonged to Balthazar. He had someone squeezed his way through the throng of appreciative bodies to get to Castiel’s side. Most of the cast and the dancers had crowded around Castiel the moment he came off stage, swarming him with congratulations. Balthazar put his hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I told you that you’d do fine!”

            Castiel smiled. His heart was still pounding from the adrenaline of the performance. He had felt so . . . _alive_ when he stood out on stage. It had been the most wonderful feeling of his life . . . And then when the crowd began cheering . . . Castiel didn’t think that he’d ever been happier. He was living his dream at long last. “Balthy, I’m sorry I ever doubted you,” Castiel laughed, throwing his arms around his friend and pulling him close.

            Balthazar hugged him back, laughing along with him.

            When the two broke apart, Castiel turned to the others and thanked them over and over again for their gracious praises.

            _BAM!_

            The sound of Monsieur Winchester’s cane slamming against the floor brought a chilling silence descending upon them all. The crowd parted as Monsieur Winchester approached Castiel, his face impassive. He halted about a foot away from the younger man, appraising him carefully. And then, Castiel saw the proud gleam in his mentor’s eyes and couldn’t help but smile.

            “They speak the truth, Castiel,” Monsieur Winchester commented. “You did very well this evening. As for the rest of you!” His voice deepened and took on a new, furious tone. Most of those present – even some of the more manly men – shuddered. “My dancers, especially – you were a disgrace! You were an embarrassment. All of you were off-beat. Some of you were tripping over your own feet, others forgot the steps entirely. I swear, it’s like working with a bunch of children sometimes! I want all of my dancers back in our rehearsal room now. You will dance until the early hours of the morning if that is what it takes for you to learn the steps correctly.” When no one immediately moved, Monsieur Winchester brought is cane down on the floor again making everyone jump. “MOVE!”

            The male dancers scattered as did the rest of Castiel’s entourage. IT was only once they were gone did Monsieur Winchester crack a smile. “I meant what I said, Castiel,” he said. “You did very well. I’m proud of you for how far you’ve come. And I’m sure that _he_ is pleased with you too.”

            Castiel’s heart fluttered at the thought. “I hope you’re right, Sam.”

            Monsieur Winchester smiled again – it was a ghost of a smile, but enough that the message was conveyed. “I know I’m right.” With that, he strode after his dancers, moving stiff like a soldier walking off to combat.

            Castiel watched him go, his heart pounding once more. Again, it was from excitement, but not the same excitement he experienced when he stood on stage. No, this was a new kind of excitement – a personal kind. Castiel knew that he had been watching. After all, _he_ heard all and saw all.

            With his heart fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, Castiel made his way to the back of the opera house. One thing that Castiel always liked about the opera house itself was that there were always new things to be discovered. When it was constructed, it was made with so many secret catacombs and passageways that most overlooked or could never find. However, through extensive exploration, Castiel had found quite a few of these “secret” places. His favorite was a little room in the back of the opera house that seemed to be some kind of sanctuary or chapel. Whatever it was, it was certainly a place for prayer. Castiel had found it shortly after he’d arrived at the opera house, and it had become his very own sanctuary. He’d go there and pray to his father, or pray for guidance. It was in that room that he used to sing when he thought that he was sure no one else could hear him. And it was in that room that _he_ found him.

            In order to get there, Castiel had to descend a small, rickety spiral staircase in almost complete darkness. It was a dangerous endeavor but the rewards far outweighed the risks. Of course, he’d always shudder, or his breath would hitch when the iron staircase creaked or groaned under his weight. But he’d always continue onward. That particular evening, the going was rather easy. There were no ominous noises as he walked, nor was there any slight breeze that could possibly make it shift or rattle. Everything seemed to be going smoothly.

            When Castiel reached the bottom of the stairs, he reached into his pockets and pulled out a match. He struck it off the stone wall and a tiny flame burst to life. He used it to light a few white candles that were placed haphazardly below a painting of Michael the archangel. The room itself was small, dingy, and smelt of water and grime. It wasn’t the most sanitary of places, but Castiel didn’t mind. This was where _he_ spoke to him.

            Castiel got down on his knees before the candles and the paintings and folded his hands together. The moment he did so, a voice echoed throughout the room. It was a voice that was both dark and inviting all at once. It seemed mostly angelic, but there was also a demonic sound to as well that Castiel chose to ignore. The voice itself made Castiel’s chest swell and brought a smile to his lips.

            “ _Brava. Brava. Bravissima._ ”

“Castiel?” a voice that sounded like it came from the top of the stairs called. “Castiel?”

            “ _Castiel,_ ” the voice in the darkness purred.

            Footsteps sounded as the speaker descended into the sanctuary. Castiel turned to see Balthazar standing at the foot of the stairs. When the older man saw Castiel, he smiled. “There you are!” he exclaimed, striding toward him. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”

            Castiel stood. He wore a stiff smile, but greeted his friend amiably. “I was simply . . . praying,” he said, and that wasn’t entirely untrue. However, he was slightly upset that Balthazar had interrupted. _When will I get to hear him again?_ Castiel wondered. _How long will it be before he speaks to me again?_ Usually, _he_ paid a great deal of attention to Castiel and spoke to him every night, but other times, it would be days, sometimes even an entire week, before Castiel heard from _him_.

            “You really were great tonight,” Balthazar said. “What’s your secret anyway? Who’s that mysterious tutor of yours?”

            Castiel paused and looked at the floor. He wrung his hands, debating on what to tell his best friend, or what to say. Balthazar had been his best friend from the moment Castiel set foot in the opera house. Balthazar had always been there for him and Castiel didn’t want to evade his question or lie. The last thing he wanted was to betray Balthazar’s trust or make his friend think that he didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth. _Then again if I do tell him the truth, he’ll probably think I’m crazy anyway._

            “Do you . . . really want to know?” Castiel asked, not meeting his friend’s gaze.

            Balthazar nodded eagerly. “Yes. I’m curious.”

            Castiel looked at him with an almost mournful look. “Balthy, I’m not crazy. I swear, I’m not, but . . . When my father died – before he passed – told me that when he got to Heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to watch over me. After I came to the opera house, I used to dream that this Angel would appear to me . . . and then, I heard him. I was singing, and he began to sing with me! Whenever I sing, I sense him. I just . . . I know he is there – that he is always with me, watching over me. Here – in this room—” He paused and turned away from his friend. He looked around the room, breathing in the dank smell that brought him comfort. It was the smell he associated with his Angel, after all. “He speaks to me, Balthazar. He whispers my name and teaches me his secrets. Oh, he’s a genius, Balthy! A true musical genius – but of course he would be. He is an Angel after all.”

            When Castiel faced Balthazar again, he saw a look of confusion and fear on his face. “Castiel . . .” he said, letting out a hollow, humorless laugh. “You must have been dreaming. Things like this – they just don’t come true. I mean . . . this isn’t like you to think of this kind of thing.”

            Castiel sighed. Of course he didn’t believe him. “Balthazar, I swear. The Angel is real. He is here and he listens to me sing. He’s my guide – my guardian. He’s secret and he’s strange, but he is my Angel . . . Balthazar, please try to understand!”

            “Castiel, I cannot understand this dream of yours,” Balthazar replied, taking a step back.

            The younger man sighed and looked around the room again. He wished that his Angel would appear – that he would show his face. Castiel wasn’t crazy – he wasn’t mad. He knew that the Angel was real – he knew that he was there, looking after him. But why was it that no one ever believed him when he tried to tell them the truth? The only one that had ever listened to him without fear and without laughing at him was Monsieur Winchester. He had listened with a grim, serious face and had believed Castiel’s story without even thinking it over. Then again, Monsieur Winchester knew and noticed things that the majority of others deemed trivial, or simply overlooked. His gut clenched tightly with a trace of fear. Had he just lost his best friend because of this talk of the Angel? Castiel, almost as a defense mechanism, began to sing under his breath:

           

“ _Angel of Music, hide no longer._

_Secret and strange angel._

_He’s with me even now._ ”

 

            Balthazar stepped forward and took Castiel’s hand to lead him out of the room, but drew it away quickly, almost in fear. “Castiel, your hands are so cold!”

            Castiel ignored his friend’s words and continued to sing softly.

 

“ _All around me . . ._ ”

 

            “Your face, Castiel!” Balthazar exclaimed. He examined his friend closely with a fearful expression. “It’s white!”

            Castiel finally met his friend’s troubled gaze.

 

“ _It frightens me._ ”

 

            “Be frightened,” Balthazar answered, taking his arm once more. He led Castiel back to the staircase and ushered him out of the room. Balthazar followed him, but not before casting another look at the dimly light room. He briefly wondered if it was true – if Castiel truly _was_ speaking with a . . . The thought left his mind quickly; his friend was simply low on sleep, or he was simply remembering a dream. Yes, that was it. And yet, as Balthazar followed Castiel up the stairs, he felt a shiver go up his spine. He couldn’t seem to shake the feeling that someone was watching him.


	4. The Phantom of the Opera

            Castiel’s dressing room was spacious but cluttered. It had a small vanity and a rack of clothes, and that was really the only _necessary_ items in there. The rest was mostly junk – old paintings were leaned against the wall, various props were scattered about, and other miscellaneous items. However, when Castiel entered his dressing room after his conversation with Balthazar, he was pleasantly surprised to find it full of flowers. Bouquets were placed in almost every open space. They made the room feel a little more cramped than usual, but they also filled it with a pleasant, flowery scent.

            As Castiel approached the vanity, he saw a single, solitary flower on top of it. It wasn’t just an ordinary flower, but a rose. A black ribbon was tied in a bow around the dark green stem. Castiel picked up the rose and studied it. After a few moments, he smiled. This single rose meant more to him than the rest of the extravagant bouquets. _Thank you, Angel,_ he thought, his heart swelling with appreciation.

            The door of the dressing room swung open with a small creak. “Nice singin’ out there, Clarence.”

            Castiel paused. He hadn’t heard anyone call him that since . . . “Meg?” He placed the rose back down on the vanity and turned toward the speaker. A short, curvy woman stood in the doorway. She was leaning against the frame with her arms folded across her chest and a smirk on her face. Her long, curly brown hair was splayed out around her face. She wore a light gray dress and a hat to match. Her eyes lit up when she saw Castiel.

            “The one and only,” she answered. She stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. “Really though – you weren’t too shabby.”

            Castiel smiled widely and pulled her into his arms. He gave her a gentle squeeze, resting his chin on her shoulder. “It’s so good to see you again, but what on Earth are you doing here?” he asked, pulling away.

            “I was meeting with the new owners,” she explained with a small smile. :I just thought I’d come visit . . . For a while, I wasn’t sure that you’d remember me.”

            He laughed. “How could I ever forget? You were my best friend, after all. Do you remember the attic?”

            “Of course,” Meg replied. “And your father and the violin.”

            “And the stories?” he prompted excitedly. “Do you remember those?”

            “Yes, yes,” she giggled. “Clarence you look like a child on Christmas morning!”

            “How about the games we used to play? Oh, and the one where you always used to try to guess my favorite thing?”

            Meg smiled at the memory. “Yeah, because you changed it every other day!”

            Castiel chuckled. “I couldn’t help it – I liked everything.”

            “Does Clarence prefer shoes, or goblins, or chocolates?” she asked, shifting her weight to one side.

            The man laughed again. His face was practically glowing as all those wonderful memories came flooding back to him. “Meg . . . Do you know what I truly like best?” he murmured quietly.

            She smirked. “What, Clarence?”

            “When the Angel of Music sings songs in my head,” he whispered. He turned away from his friend then, and let out a low sigh. But it was a happy one. He began to sing softly.

 

“ _When the Angel of Music_

 _Sings songs in my head._ ”

 

            Meg continued to smile at him even though his words troubled her slightly. He sounded so . . . serious, as if he thought that he spoke the truth. “Who is this Angel of Music?” she asked, trying to keep her voice light. She didn’t want him to think that she was prying.

            Castiel faced her once more, his eyes bright and full of liveliness. “Meg, when my father passed away, he told me that once he got to Heaven, he would send the Angel of Music to watch over me . . . Well, I _have_ been visited by the Angel of Music, Meg.”

            “I’d certainly say so,” she answered, patting his bicep with her hand thoughtfully. She was contemplative for a moment, mulling over a certain thought. She wanted to spend more time with him, but she didn’t want to make him feel awkward by hovering here either. “Come on, Clarence,” she said at last, taking his hand. “Why don’t we go out to dinner somewhere and celebrate your accomplishment?” As she began to guide him toward the door, Castiel pulled his hand away.

            “Oh no,” he said swiftly. “Meg, the Angel of Music is very strict.”

            She let out a little laugh. “Oh, c’mon Cas. Don’t be coy with me! I’m not going to keep you out late. Here, I’ll go call my carriage while you change. Does that sound good?” Before Castiel could even answer, she had left the room.

            He gulped and went over to the rack of clothing in the corner. He stripped, carefully folding his performance clothes into a neat pile. He then put on a white buttoned shirt and a pair of black trousers. He was then faced with a dilemma; he didn’t want to upset the Angel, but he didn’t want to offend Meg either. It would be rude if he turned her down, especially after all these years. Castiel let out a sigh of defeat and pulled on a long, tan trench coat.

            Just as he was about to approach the door, all of the candles in the room went dark. Their flames just withered and died without warning – devoured by darkness. Castiel stopped. He stood in the blackness for a few moments. His heart was hammering in his chest.

 

“ _Insolent girl, this slave of fashion,_

 _Basking in your glory!_ ”

 

            The voice echoed like thunder throughout the room. It was the Angel’s voice and he sounded absolutely furious. Castiel took a fearful step back. His breaths were now coming in rapid gasps. He backed up until he hit a wall. All he could do was stand there in fear as the Angel’s song continued.

 

“ _Ignorant whore, this brave young harlot,_

 _Sharing in my triumph!_ ”

 

            Castiel gulped and raised his voice to reply. He began to sing, hoping that would calm the Angel, or at least appease him.

 

“ _Angel, I hear you._

_Speak, I listen._

_Stay by my side,_

_Guide me._

_Angel, my soul was weak,_

_Forgive me._

_Enter at last, Master._ ”

 

            There was a brief period of silence before the Angel responded.

 

“ _Flattering child, you shall know me._

_See why in shadow I hide._

_Look at your face in the mirror._

_I am there, inside!_ ”

 

            Castiel turned, and the moment he saw his reflection in the mirror, he saw another figure standing there. It was a man – no, an Angel. He was taller than Castiel with short, golden hair. His skin was oddly pale and even looked a little chalky. He was dressed in all black, but wore a cape with a red interior that glimmered in the dim light. But, the most impressive – the most noticeable part – was his face.

            Half of it was exposed, and it was the most beautiful sight Castiel had ever seen. Everything about it was perfect, and the eyes – Castiel could have gotten lost in them. They struck him breathless. They were a deep, inviting evergreen color. The other half of the Angel’s face was concealed by a white mask. It stretched from his hair line, down to his jaw. The only parts that were exposed on that side of his face were his eye and his lips. His lips themselves were full and pink.

            All of his features were just captivating.

            Castiel couldn’t help but stare. His Angel was there – speaking to him, showing himself to him. _God in Heaven, what have I done to deserve this honor?_ he wondered. Why would an Angel so perfect and so wonderful be interested in him? Why would even _want_ to look after Castiel? Overwhelmed with joy and lost in the Angel’s intense gaze, Castiel began to sing.

 

“ _Angel of Music, guide and guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory!_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer!  
_

_Come to me, strange Angel!_ ”

 

            He watched in wonder as the Angel stretched out his hand to him. It seemed to pass right through the mirror.

            And the angel sang once more.

 

“ _I am your Angel._

 _Come to me Angel of Music._ ”

 

            At those words, Castiel was lost. The Angel’s voice called to him in such an irresistible manner that he could not resist. As if he were in a trance, Castiel strode toward the mirror. The blond Angel with evergreen eyes stared back at him with an expression that was both hard and soft all in one. The Angel continued to beckon him forward with an outstretched hand and his sweet song.

 

“ _I am your Angel of Music._

 _Come to me Angel of Music._ ”

 

            Castiel grasped his hand.

 

* * *

 

            The passageway was dark and smelled damp. The walls were wet and grimy to the touch. Castiel could hear the sounds of rats squeaking and scurrying about around the edges of the tiny hall. On any other occasion, he would have been disgusted by the conditions, but not now. The Angel of Music was holding his hand – guiding him through this complex labyrinth. A lantern was their only source of light, and even then the Angel seemed to keep the flame low so little light was thrown off. Castiel had a hard time making out where things were, but the Angel moved quickly, silently, and flawlessly.

            Castiel still had a hard time wrapping his head around this situation. Here he was, walking in what looked like catacombs with the Angel he’d been dreaming of for years . . . But Castiel also knew that he was not _just_ an Angel. He was another story – another fable whispered about backstage. He was the Phantom of the Opera. He had to be – it made the most logical sense.

            As they walked along, Castiel briefly wondered if this was even real. _Am I even here? Is this even happening? Or am I back at home in my bed? Is it just a dream?_ A part of him believed it was just a long, very detailed dream. After all, how could so many wonderful things happen in one day? But another part of him insisted that it was real – terrifyingly real. The thought of it actually happening, the reality of the situation somewhat scared Castiel. He didn’t know why. What reason did he have to be scared? His Angel would never harm him.

            In his fear, Castiel began to hum under his breath. It was a short, choppy melody – at least when performed by unskilled lips. But Castiel knew the song too well; it was the song the Angel would sing to him at night when he first arrived at the opera house. Every night when Castiel would lie in his cramped room, the Angel would sing that song to him.

            And the Angel heard it now. He paused in mid-step, catching Castiel off guard. The Angel looked over his shoulder at Castiel and studied him for a moment. He was even handsomer up close. “You remember that?” the Angel asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

            Castiel gulped. The Angel was so close – it was almost driving him crazy. “Y- yes.”

            He smiled. “You do not have to keep quiet,” he said thoughtfully, continuing his brisk pace down the passage. Castiel scrambled to keep up with him. “That is something you will never have to do in my presence. I love to hear your voice, Castiel. Sing if you so desire.”

            His heart swelled at the Angel’s words.

            And Castiel sang.

 

“ _In sleep he sang to me._

_In dreams he came._

_That voice which calls to me,_

_And speaks my name._

_And do I dream again for now I find_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside my mind._ ”

 

            They began to descend downward – deeper into the crypts. Castiel held his Angel’s hand tightly. To Castiel’s surprise, the Angel replied to his verse in perfect pitch and rhythm. He glanced back at his human companion as he sang and continued to lead the way through the maze.

 

“ _Sing once again with me_

_Our strange duet._

_My power over you grows stronger yet._

_And though you turn from me to glance behind,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there_

_Inside your mind._ ”

 

            At the bottom of the swirling stone stairs, they came to what looked like a sewer. A dark, murky water lapped against the rocky floor. The Angel let go of Castiel’s hand then and walked to the edge of the channel of the water. It was then Castiel noticed the small boat that had been docked there. In the dim light, it was very noticeable, not to mention rather small. For a few moments, Castiel wasn’t even sure that it would be able to hold both him and the Angel. Surely their combined weight would sink the old, fragile thing.

            The Angel put his lantern at the front of the boat and gave more fuel to the flame. A more significant light now illuminated the dark corridors, allowing Castiel to get a better grip of his surroundings. It was futile, though. The structure of this bizarre maze was too complex for him to even begin to comprehend it. The Angel stepped onto the boat and stretched out his hand to Castiel.

            The human took his hand again, and felt a small rush of pleasure course through him at the feeling of his Angel’s skin on his. As he stepped onto the boat, he began his song again.

 

“ _Those who have seen your face_

_Draw back in fear._

_I am the mask you wear._ ”

 

            The Angel pulled Castiel close so their bodies touched. Castiel’s heart was pounding as the Angel looked down at him with twinkling green eyes. The angel breathed in Castiel’s face:

 

“ _It’s me they hear._ ”

 

            The Angel motioned for Castiel to sit down and he complied. The Angel took a long pole and brought it down into the water. Using his strength alone, the Angel propelled them – or rather _pulled_ them – forward through the water. When Castiel raised his voice in song again, the Angel joined him effortlessly despite the physical strain he was undoubtedly under.

 

“ _Your/My spirit and my/your voice in one combined._

_The Phantom of the Opera is there/here_

_Inside my/your mind._ ”

 

            As the Angel navigated through the sewers, Castiel quickly lost track of all the precise turns they took; there were just too many to count. Instead, Castiel watched his surroundings with wonder even though he knew it would normally have been in disgust. Water permeated the walls, making everything damp to the touch and just unappealing in general. But, the Angel’s presence made everything seem to . . . fantastic. With the Angel, it was as if none of this existed – that everything was perfect and flawless.

            And then suddenly a gate loomed out of the murk. Castiel stared at it in awe and wonder; he just couldn’t believe that this place existed just below the Opera House. How many people knew about it? Did anyone? Was this his Angel’s special, secret domain? Was Castiel the only one who knew now? A particularly frightening thought then crossed Castiel’s mind: Was this even real? Was this reality, or was it a dream that Castiel’s demented mind had conjured up? After all, this entire situation seemed so surreal – it felt like a dream . . . Too good to be true, that was the saying, right? His chest tightened at the thought. _I don’t want this to be a dream. I want it to be real. I want my Angel to be real._

            The boat meandered closer to the gate as the Angel continued to pull them along. Without warning, the gate began to rise out the water. Castiel watched it as climbed higher and higher. Muck, algae, and other suspicious debris hung from or were stuck to the gate. Water rained down from the bottom of the gate, threatening to drench Castiel and his Angel as they drifted closer. However, to his relief, the shower died down to an insignificant trickle – a few drops here and there. As they passed underneath it, Castiel heard his Angel resume their song.

 

“ _In all your fantasies, you always knew_

 _That man and mystery,_ ”

 

            Castiel broke in, looking over his shoulder at the Angel that had entranced him years ago.

 

“ _Were both in you._ ”

 

            A smile ghosted across the Angel’s face. They entered a small lagoon. Castiel stared around; the places he had thought was wondrous now paled into comparison to the image before him. At the opposite side of the lagoon was a rocky alcove with enough candles to light a chandelier, maybe more. There were numerous candle clumped together in various places along the alcove making the rock around it shine a golden-brown color. In the center was a magnificent organ, it’s pipes glimmering in the candlelight.

            The Angel steered the boat to the edge of the rocks and docked it. When he finished, he stepped out onto the rock and sang. Castiel joined him, unable to keep himself quiet. Then again, he didn’t have to. His Angel _wanted_ to hear him sing.

 

“ _And in this labyrinth,_

_Where night is blind,_

_The Phantom of the Opera is there/here_

_Inside my/your mind._ ”

 

            As Castiel got to his feet, he wobbled slightly. The boat rocked in the water as he attempted to stand. He had no idea how the Angel could move with such unparalleled grace. _Well, he_ is _an angel,_ Castiel thought after a second. The Angel’s hand immediately steadied him when he threatened to tip the boat and go tumbling into the glassy water. Castiel smiled and blushed. He could feel the Angel’s eyes on him, whether they looked on with amusement, or annoyance, or something else that Castiel didn’t dare imagine, he didn’t know. He couldn’t bring himself to look. All he could do was continue their song.

 

“ _He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera . . ._ ”

 

            The Angel took his hand in Castiel’s and led him up onto dry land – something Castiel was much more comfortable with. The Angel walked sideways, keeping his eyes glued to Castiel’s face. It was all Castiel could do to focus on where he was walking. He knew that if he locked eyes with the Angel, he would be loss in those evergreen orbs.

            “Sing,” the Angel purred to Castiel. That got the human’s attention. He looked up at his angelic companion and felt his mouth fall open slightly. The Angel had stopped walking and was now studying him; his bright green eyes bore into Castiel’s. “Sing, my Angel of Music.”

            Castiel complied, raising his voice to a new pitch he had never sung before. He didn’t even know he was capable of reaching it, even. He continued to sing, closing his eyes. He focused on his Angel – he was there, and he was listening. A part of him thought that singing in front of his Angel was no different than singing in front of a full house, but another _insisted_ that it was much different. This was _his Angel._ He had to sing better than he’d ever sung before.

            One of the Angel’s hands reached out and caressed Castiel’s cheek. “Sing for me,” he breathed.

            Castiel kept singing, his voice rising higher and higher and growing louder and louder.

            His Angel kept whispering in his ear.

            “Sing my Angel!”

            “ _Sing for me!_ ”


	5. The Music of the Night

             The Angel smiled as Castiel finished his song and took the human’s hand. He led him toward the large, magnificent organ that was in the center of the alcove, still smiling as if he were the happiest man on earth. “I have brought you to this world of unending night for one purpose and one alone,” the angel explained to him. When he reached the organ, he halted. Castiel watched with a glazed expression as his Angel removed his cape. He draped it over the organ chair and then turned his attention back to Castiel. He looked so . . . dashing in his black suit, and his white mask only seemed to add to his overall enigmatic and appealing image. The Angel took Castiel’s hand again in both of his and ran his thumb over the back. “From the moment I first heard you sing, I’ve needed you with me to serve me – to sing. I need you, Castiel . . . for my music.”

            Castiel just continued to stare, dazed and entranced. He was still caught in disbelief that this was happening. It had to be a dream . . . but it felt real. Castiel took  in a shaky breath. Whether it was a dream or not, he didn’t want it to end.

            The Angel gently pulled Castiel toward him as he began to sing again. His voice made Castiel shiver; his skin crawled but not from fear. It was from something else – something stronger and . . . something much more pleasant.

 

“ _Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation._

_Darkness stirs and wakes imagination._

_Silently the senses abandon their defenses._

 

_Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor._

_Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender._ ”

 

            Suddenly, the Angel’s hand caressed the side of Castiel’s face once more. He turned Castiel’s face away from the light of a group of candles. Castiel was practically putty in the Angel’s hands; he was at his mercy. The Angel began to sing sweetly again:

 

“ _Turn your face away from the garish light of day._

_Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light . . ._

_And listen to the Music of the Night._ ”

 

            When the Angel finished his verse, Castiel dared to look away. He looked around at the alcove that must have been the Angel’s home. Castiel could feel the Angel’s soft, evergreen eyes on him. It might have made someone nervous, but not Castiel. He was used to feeling them – he had become rather good at sensing when his Angel was watching. After all, Castiel had never seen him for years, but knew he was there, watching. If anything, his Angel’s eyes made him feel secure – protected.

            Castiel saw a few mannequins – just heads – with different masks on them. Most of them were white, but there were a few black ones – no unusual or flamboyant colors. Some of them were just to cover one side of the face, but some did cover both sides, or just the eyes. Castiel also saw some blond wigs on the mannequin heads as well. He wondered why the Angel had them, but the thought didn’t really register. Instead, it just flitted in and out. Castiel let his eyes wander more until they rested on a tiny stage. He took a single step toward it in curiosity. It was an exact model of the stage up in the opera house. Castiel cocked his head to one side and then noticed the figurine standing on stage.

            The little figurine was clearly a man and was dressed in a fancy suit. His head, or at least where his hair would be, was painted black. The man’s tiny eyes were unmistakably blue. Castiel studied it for a moment, not even realizing who it was meant to be. And then, rather suddenly, the thought practically slapped him in the face. It was him.

            Castiel straightened up and couldn’t help but smile. He turned to where the Angel had stood just moments before, only to find him missing. It was then that he heard steps behind him. He went still – rigid for a moment – as the Angel’s hand snaked around his waist. At his mysterious Angel’s touch, Castiel immediately relaxed. The Angel’s other hand covered Castiel’s eyes, and his voice began to murmur in his ear.

 

“ _Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams._

_Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before._

_Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar._

_And you'll live as you've never lived before._ ”

 

            The Angel’s hand disappeared. Castiel’s eyes lazily fluttered open. His body was surging with feelings that he’d never felt before . . . His Angel was walking away now, walking toward the organ. Castiel followed, his eyes fixated on his phantom. As the Angel began to sing again, Castiel was lost in his voice. His eyelids fluttered at the mirror sound of it, and his entire being felt like it was airborne.

 

“ _Softly, deftly, music shall caress you._

_Hear it, feel it, secretly possess you._

_Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind_

_In this darkness that you know you cannot fight . . ._

_The darkness of the music of the night._ ”

 

            The Angel was smiling. He looked almost boyish as he spun around, singing the song that sounded like it had come from his soul. Every time he looked back to Castiel, his eyes flashed with a bright, burning light. He sang with his hands, making sometimes wild and erratic motions, but just showing how passionate he was. It was as if he were desperately trying to convince Castiel how wonderful his world was . . . as if he trying to get him to stay.

 

“ _Let your mind start a journey to a strange new world._

_Leave all thoughts of the life you knew before!_

_Let your soul take you where you long to be . . ._ ”

 

            The last note rung loudly throughout the alcove, echoing off the walls. In that moment, Castiel thought that he sounded more like an angel than ever before. He was so . . . majestic – so wonderful. Everything about him . . . Castiel couldn’t even form coherent thoughts anymore. All logic – all sanity – was driven away by the Angel and his seraphic voice.

            The Angel then turned to Castiel. He approached him slowly, his steps so short that Castiel might’ve thought that he was hesitant – fearful. When he reached the human, he cupped his face in his hands. The Angel stared down at him, his eyes almost pleading. There was an emotion in them – one that Castiel couldn’t determine, but he hadn’t expected it either. It looked . . . like fear and adoration all at once.

 

“ _Only then can you belong to me._ ”

 

            Castiel let out a small gasp as the Angel spun him around. He let out a shuddering breath as his back was pressed flush against the Angel. His heart was hammering in his chest as the Angel’s hands began to roam his body. They were soft, tentative – almost questioning in their touches. They explored the plains of his chest, moving in different directions. The Angel’s left hand came up to Castiel’s neck while the right drifted lower and lower.

            When the Angel began to sing again, Castiel was panting. The Angel’s voice, while still as perfect and as flawless as ever, had a new sound to it. It was huskier . . . darker . . . sexier.

 

“ _Floating, falling, sweet intoxication . . ._ ”

 

            The Angel brought Castiel’s hand up to the exposed side of his face and held it there. Castiel let out a breathy sigh. Even the Angel sounded a little strained. His voice sounded . . . lustful. It made Castiel’s eyes nearly roll back in his head.

 

“ _Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation._ ”

 

            And suddenly, the Angel’s hands and body was gone. Castiel nearly whimpered at the loss of contact. He turned, looking around for his Angel; he hadn’t gone far. He was still facing Castiel but heading toward what looked like a small, makeshift staircase. He beckoned Castiel closer with a methodical wave of a finger.

            Castiel went to him, helpless to resist. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t think that he could. Who could walk away from an Angel?

 

“ _Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in_

_To the power of the music that I write . . ._

_The power of the music of the night._ ”

 

            The Angel led Castiel up the stairs to a small, more secluded section of the alcove. To Castiel’s great surprise, a large, king-sized bed was waiting for them. He paused, just for a moment. He’d never found men attractive – he’d never sought them out . . . But the Angel – _his_ Angel . . . He did thing to Castiel that he knew no woman ever could. If this is what his Angel wanted, then he would give it to him. Besides, Castiel knew that he wanted it just as badly, if not more than his Angel did.

            Castiel watched as the Angel removed the jacket of his suit and tossed it carelessly on the floor. He now wore a simple, long-sleeved black shirt and black pants. He stretched his hand out to Castiel once more, his green eyes resting on him. There was a question in his eyes. An unspoken question. A hidden fear. An undeniable love. They all shone through.

            He took the Angel’s head and walked to the side of the bed. The next thing Castiel knew, he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. A moment later, the view of the ceiling was blocked by the Angel’s face as he hovered over his human. Castiel watched him, his pants now painfully tight.

 

“ _You alone can make my song take flight . . ._ ”

 

            The Angel paused in his song and looked down at Castiel, lying beneath him. The human’s chest was rising and falling rapidly as he gazed up into the emerald eyes. “Castiel,” the Angel breathed, leaning down so his lips were less than an inch from his human’s.

 

“ _Help me make the music of the night._ ”

 

            Castiel gave a small nod – a consent.

            And their lips met.

 

\- - - -

 

            What happened next was something that seemed like it came out of Castiel’s wildest fantasy. When it was all said and done, there was nowhere the Angel’s hands had not touched. There was nowhere the Angel’s lips had not kissed. Castiel didn’t know how many times he had reached his climax – he lost count after the third. He didn’t know how many times the Angel made love to him. He didn’t know how long they were lying entwined on that bed, moving as one.

            Castiel was infatuated. He was lost. He was smitten. It was over for him. Perhaps it had been the moment he’d heard the Angel’s voice all those years ago . . . Perhaps Castiel had always belonged to the Angel. And, surprisingly, he was okay with that. In fact, he was more than okay with that. He was relieved. It felt nice to have someone on his side – to have someone . . . care for him. There was always Monsieur Winchester who was (perhaps bizarrely) loyal to him, but Monsieur Winchester wasn’t the Angel.

            They lay in the bed, the sheets half covering their sweaty bodies. The Angel lay on his back, staring at the ceiling while Castiel was snuggled into his side, his head on the Angel’s chest.

            Castiel didn’t know if he could sleep – he was still too wound up, even after their exhausting lovemaking. He was content to simply lie there in his Angel’s arms and listen to him breathe. Every now and then, he would glance up at his face. His eyes would always linger on the mask. What was behind it, and why hadn’t he taken it off when they were intimate? Castiel had made an attempt to remove it, but the Angel had denied his request by pinning his arms to the bed and holding him in place.

            Castiel looked up at him again, only to find the Angel staring back at him this time. He quickly averted the gaze and heard his Angel let out a tight sigh. “Do . . . do you regret it?”

            The question took him by surprise. Castiel propped himself up on his elbow and studied his masked Angel. His mouth was slightly ajar, and he could only hope that he looked at shocked and as appalled as he felt to be presented with that question. “Of course not,” he said. His voice was slightly hoarse. _I won’t be singing for a day or two,_ he thought somewhat despondently, but then he smiled slightly. At least he lost his voice in a . . . pleasurable manner. “Why would you think that?”

            The Angel sat up then, the sheets falling down to reveal his perfectly-sculpted chest. He sighed. “I just . . . I’ve never done that before.” The admission came out almost with uncertainty. His green eyes locked with Castiel’s again; the human couldn’t help but think how innocent and how boyish he looked. “Did I . . . do good? Was it satisfactory?”

            Castiel laughed, but immediately regretted it when he saw his Angel wince. He quickly tried to amend it, taking the Angel’s chin and turning his face back towards him. “I won’t be able to sing for a few days from all the screaming you made me do. Mediocre or less than ‘satisfactory’ work wouldn’t make me lose my voice.”

            The Angel smiled, reassured.

            They said no more. It seemed enough for each of them just to be in the presence of the other. It was a comfortable, content silence, and it wasn’t long before Castiel fell fast asleep.


	6. The Face Behind the Mask

          Castiel woke to a soft, twinkling melody. He also woke alone. He reached out, expecting to come in contact with his Angel’s soft but firm body and found nothing. His eyes fluttered open, and he looked around for the source of the music and for his missing partner. Sitting up in the bed, he noticed a music box sitting next to the bed. He shifted to the edge of the bed and stared at it with curious eyes.

          The music box was small and adorned with a small monkey in some kind of robe. The monkey held two cymbals in its hands and would lean back and forth. Each time it leaned forward, he would bring the cymbals so close together it looked like they touched. Castiel cocked his head to the side – something he normally did when something interested him. It looked to be a rather expensive and well-crafted piece . . . but why did his Angel have it? Looking around at his home, The Angel didn’t seem to be any kind of collector. Some things were scattered about, but all the items seemed to have some sort of use. None of them were simply for looks – the Angel was the only one who saw them every day. So this music box had to have some kind of significance.

          When the music box’s song ceased, Castiel got out of the bed. It was odd to feel a breeze on his bare flesh. And it was a real breeze. The air circulated with a great deal of freedom in the alcove. He looked around for his pants and the other clothes he had been wearing the night before. He hadn’t exactly noticed where they’d been thrown – he had been a little preoccupied at the time. To his surprise, he found them at the foot of the bed folded in a neat pile.

          He dressed, pulling on his black pants and buttoning his white shirt with ease. He even slipped on his tan trench coat after a few moments of contemplation. Now that his clothes had been located, it was time to find his Angel.

          Following the soft sounds of an organ, Castiel retraced the steps he’d taken the previous night. He descended the stairs so he was back in the main section of the alcove. The lake lapped at the rocky shore, the sound echoing throughout the little cavern. _I remember there was mist,_ Castiel thought, looking out at the water. _Swirling mist upon a vast, glassy lake . . ._ He looked at the multitudes of candles that illuminated the alcove and continued down the stairs. _There were candles all around . . . and on the lake there was a boat._ The boat was still docked where the Angel had left it the night before. _And in the boat . . . there was a man._

          Castiel’s eyes found him as soon as he thought it. The blond-haired Angel sat at the organ, softly playing a familiar tune – one that he’d heard many times before in their auditory meetings. Upon Castiel’s entry, he glanced up from what he was doing. A smile flashed on his face for a brief second, and his evergreen eyes flashed before he returned to what he was doing. He still wore his mask, but was dressed in different clothes. He wore a white, open-chested shirt and the same black pants he’d been wearing before. He looked more attractive than ever.

          The mask bugged Castiel and he didn’t know why. Why did the Angel feel the need to wear it? Why did he hide himself? Castiel thought that he should take it off – at least for a little while. After all, they had made love. Did the Angel not trust him? Why did he insist on keeping a part of himself hidden?

          Castiel went to his side and stood there a few moments, almost hovering. The Angel didn’t seem bothered by his presence and continued to play. That was when Castiel stretched out his hands. At first, the Angel tensed – it was a miniscule change in his demeanor; he went rigid. But the moment Castiel’s hands touched his face, the Angel visibly softened. He even leaned into Castiel’s hands, as if yearning for his attention. Castiel stroked the exposed side of his Angel’s face with one hand while the other snuck around to the mask. In one swift motion, he tore it off.

          The Angel’s reaction was instant. He jumped to his feet, throwing Castiel away from him. Castiel hit the floor with a thud, the mask landing a few feet away. “DAMN YOU!” he roared, spinning away. He clutched the side of his face that had been hidden by the mask. “YOU LITTLE PRYING PANDORA!” He then faced Castiel, his face the embodiment of rage. The Angel removed his hand, exposing his face. Castiel’s jaw fell open as he finally saw the side of his face that had been kept hidden. Now he understood. Now he knew why the Angel hid it.

          “ _IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED TO SEE?!_ ” the Angel screamed in his face.

          Castiel instinctively flinched away, and in that moment, he saw a tortured look appear in the Angel’s eyes. “Curse you,” the Angel breathed, whipping around once more. “You lying demon . . .” His voice had died down from a roar to a stricken whisper. “You little  viper . . . Now you cannot ever be free.”

          All Castiel could do was stare at him in shock – stare at the half of his face. It was hardly a face at all – misshapen . . . distorted . . . deformed . . . The Angel’s chest was heaving as he breathed. “DAMN YOU!” he shouted again. He picked up the organ bench and threw it at the wall. “CURSE YOU!”

          A few moments of strained silence followed. Castiel was speechless. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t expect to see that when he removed the Angel’s mask. He didn’t think that . . . He had made a terrible error and now he didn’t know how to fix it. Would an apology work? Was that even sufficient?

          “Stranger than you dreamt it, isn’t it?” the Angel finally asked, breathless. “Can you even dare to look, or bear to think of me now?”

          Castiel didn’t answer. His mouth was dry.

          “I’m a . . . gargoyle . . . loathsome . . . misshapen . . . How can you look at me after this? How could you ever make love to me again after this? After you’ve seen . . . I’m a monster who burns in hell . . . but secretly yearns for heaven . . . secretly . . . Secretly . . . Castiel . . .”

          The Angel looked defeated – destroyed. It was as if removing his mask had shattered all of his dreams in some way. And his words . . . it was as if the Angel expected Castiel to run away from him in fear. Castiel longed to take his Angel in his arms and comfort him -- tell him that he wasn’t afraid and that he wouldn’t leave.

          “But not all hope is lost,” the Angel said suddenly, turning to the human. “After all, fear can turn to love. You can learn to love the man behind the monster – this . . . repulsive carcass who seems a beast but secretly . . . dreams of beauty . . . Oh, Castiel . . .”

          Castiel watched him for a few moments. The Angel didn’t move; he stood with the good side of his face where Castiel could see it. His shoulders were sagged. His head was hung. His eyes were closed. He looked forlorn in every sense of the word. Silently, Castiel picked up the white mask where it had fallen. Slowly so he didn’t startle the Angel, Castiel stood and walked toward him at a painstaking pace.

          As Castiel neared, the Angel’s eyes opened and met his. Castiel paused before offering the mask to him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as sincerely as he could.

          The Angel straightened up and took his mask. He turned away from Castiel as he put it back on. The moment it was restored to his face, the Angel seemed to grow back to his full height. His confidence was restored and his evergreen eyes took a new, impassive coldness that made Castiel’s chest ache. The Angel had shut him out – locked him away from his true self. The fact that Angel didn’t trust him anymore -- that he believed Castiel had betrayed him – hurt Castiel almost as much as his father’s death.

          “Come, you must return,” the Angel informed. “Those two fools that run my theatre will be missing you.”

 

\- - - -

 

          The walked back to Castiel’s dressing room in silence. Only this time, it was not an easy, comfortable silence. Instead it was cold, stiff, and deafening. Castiel felt numb. Everything had been going so well – he had been so happy . . . And now he’d messed it up. _Why did I have to take off that stupid mask?_ he thought with despair.

          Even though he felt awful, he knew that his Angel had to feel worse. His face was the reason he hid – the reason he wore the mask. Castiel couldn’t imagine how he felt – the life he’d lived. How many people had seen his face and screamed? Or cowered in fear? How many had scorned and hated him for his appearance alone?

          Castiel’s heart broke at the thought. _He trusted me . . . He let me get close to him and I . . . Oh, Angel! Forgive me for my stupidity!_

          When they returned to the mirror, the Angel stepped aside and motioned for Castiel to step through the transparent door. But he refused to budge. He stood, staring at his Angel intently. All the things he wanted to say – all that he had intended to say at that moment – were suddenly wiped from his mind as he stared at his lover. The Angel simply stared at the wall opposite of where he stood, not even giving Castiel the satisfaction of paying the slightest attention to him. Castiel let out a tired sigh. “Angel . . .”

          The phantom’s evergreen eyes flashed to his for the briefest of moments. “Yes, Castiel?”

          Just hearing his name on the Angel’s lips made him shiver. His mind was brought back to the night before – the way the Angel had purred in his ear and egged him on toward his release. “ _I am your Angel. Come for me, Angel of Music,_ ” he’d whispered. Castiel felt his manhood twitch at the memory. He shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He had to focus. When he met the Angel’s eyes he immediately noticed that all the warmth, all the affection, and all the love that had shone in his eyes the previous night was gone. “I’m sorry,” he blurted out once more. His heart was twisting with guilt in ways he didn’t think possible. “I . . . I should have asked . . .”

          The Angel’s face hardened and he looked at the stone wall again. “Yes . . . You should have.”

          “But you’re acting as though I’ve ruined everything,” Castiel pointed out. “Do you . . . I mean . . . Have I ruined it?”

          There was no answer at first. And then, softly, “You still want . . . ? But how could you still want to even _be in my presence_ after what you saw?” The words almost passed by Castiel’s ears; he almost missed them. It was as if the Angel was whispering them to himself as opposed to the human beside him.

          But he did hear them. And now he understood. The Angel thought that he would run like everyone else – that he would judge him for his appearance . . . that he was _afraid_ of him. Castiel reached out to him and watched in sorrow as the Angel flinched away from him. The reaction was so uncharacteristic of him – at least in Castiel’s eyes. He had only seen the Angel when he was in his element – when he was confident and on top of the world. But now he saw a different Angel – a frightened, vulnerable . . . self-conscious. “I’m _not_ afraid of you,” Castiel tried to reassure. He wanted him – _needed_ him – to believe that he was telling the truth. “A face . . . it doesn’t mean anything! You said it yourself: find the man behind the monster . . . And that is what _want._ I _want_ to see that man. Please don’t shut me out and keep me from him. I promise you that I’ll treat him kindly – I’ll give him all the love I have in my heart . . . Just please don’t push me away from you.”

          The Angel was silent; perhaps unable to respond. Castiel watched him closely, searching for softness, or some kind of invitation for Castiel to move closer. Instead, all he saw was pain – an undeniable and tragic agony. It was almost as if Castiel’s words had brought him more pain that the removal of the mask did.

          “Angel,” Castiel whispered, moving so he now stood in front of his mysterious phantom. “Please . . . let me show you that I don’t fear you. Let me show you that there _is_ kindness and understanding hidden in this world of judgment and cruelty.”

          For a half-second, he thought he saw something glimmer in those green eyes – something moist . . . A tear? Before Castiel could even take another look, the Angel turned away from him. With a heavy heart, Castiel watched as the Angel began to strode down the tunnel back toward the depths of his lair. But then, he paused. Hope flared inside the human’s chest, but it was short-lived – shattered by the Angel’s next words.

          “Goodbye Castiel.”

          And then he was gone, swallowed up by the darkness that had long ago consumed his tortured heart.


	7. Notes from the Opera Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to take a moment to thank all of you for all the kudos and all the wonderful comments you've left! I really appreciate them - they mean the world to me. Honestly, I wrote this story more for /myself/ than anyone. I wrote it because I wanted to, which is something I don't usually do. I mean, I do write what I enjoy, but more often than not, I try to think of what /others/ would like too. Like some of my other stories, not to name any, I just keep writing because people like them. However, this one isn't like that. I genuinely love bringing it to life. When I posted it, I didn't expect any kind of response - like at all. I thought this would just get lost in the midst of other, better fics. But this one has been doing surprisingly well considering how I thought it would do. So all of you out there reading - all of you that gave this story a chance - I thank you from the bottom of my heart!
> 
> In other news, I don't have a set update schedule mostly because I cannot guarantee when I can write. Sometimes, like recently, I've been very free. Schoolwork has been easy but as the semester nears its end, I know things will get more hectic. I will always try to write every day and find time to add a chapter, but I cannot guarantee anything. However, I only have two short little weeks left before I am free once more! Some of my friends' classes have already ended, but mine, unfortunately, are still in session. But it won't be long until I can devote the majority of my day (or at least a good bit of it) to writing. 
> 
> So just bare with me and don't be alarmed if the updates stop coming as quickly. 
> 
> Now, I think I've rambled enough; on with the show!

          The press went wild after Castiel’s performance the previous night. It hadn’t even been a full twenty-four hours and already the papers were teaming with gossip. Who exactly was the rising star that had replaced Meta Tronne at the last minute? Who was the devilishly handsome young man who sang like an angel? What happened to Meta Tronne? Was foul play involved? All of these questions seemed to go unanswered, but Monsieur Speight was glad of that. It only added to the mystery surrounding the previous night and Castiel Novak. _And_ it made business boom. Tickets were selling faster than a beam of light it seemed.

          Monsieur Speight sat in his office, looking over the ticket sales. Next week’s performance was nearly sold out already, but he still contemplated jacking up the price a few dozen francs. It seemed only appropriate to take advantage of the situation and make as much money as he could off Meta Tronne’s misfortune and Castiel’s sudden stardom.

          Just as he was about to begin to debate how much money he should raise the prices, he heard the heavy footsteps of his co-worker approaching. He knew it was Monsieur Fuller mostly because, after many years of working with him, he had learned to recognize his very distinct gate. He always walked and moved as if he were angry, or as if he had great purpose.

          “Gabriel!” his partner’s voice bellowed as he entered the office they shared. “Have you seen this morning’s paper?”

          Monsieur Speight sighed. “Yes, Zachariah,” he nearly groaned. Must his friend always act so inept? Must he think so little of him? Sure Gabriel liked to goof around and have a good time, but he _did_ do his job. “Of course I’ve seen it.”

          “This is an outrage!” Zachariah continued to rant. Gabriel knew better than to try to rein him in now – he was already off and nearly possible to corral. “‘Foul play’? Are they mad? This is downright scandalous!”

          “Oh, Zachariah,” Gabriel said, waving a dismissive hand at him. “It’s publicity! You should _see_ the ticket sales! Do you have any idea how much money we’re making? Much more than we _ever_ did in the junk business!”

          The other man stiffened. Gabriel knew that attacking their former occupation was a bit of a low blow – it had been Zachariah’s idea after all. It just didn’t work out the way either of them had planned. They went into debt early on, had to go hungry a few nights, Gabriel’s third wife left him (then again his romantic partners leaving him in the dust wasn’t exactly a new occurrence), and all in all it was not successful. By the time they had finally paid off all the money they owed, Gabriel was tired of the damn thing. So, he suggested that they start anew in a different field entirely. And then he just happened to stumble into an old friend that afternoon who told him that an opera house in Paris was looking to change management. When Gabriel had gone to Zachariah with this proposition, the older man had immediately turned him down. It was too far-fetched – too wild. But Gabriel talked him into it, and . . . well . . . Here they were.

          “Gabriel, the cast pretty much walked out on us after last night! After what happened with Meta Tronne . . .” Zachariah continued to fret.

          His partner huffed in response. “Please . . . Zachariah, have you even seen the queue? Oh, it seems you’ve got one too,” he said, spying the envelope on Zachariah’s desk. It looked identical to the one that Gabriel had discovered when he entered the office that morning. He hadn’t opened it, though; he wanted to wait for his partner to arrive. Now, he picked up the folded parchment on his desk. He was about to break the wax seal that kept the message concealed, but paused. There was something odd about it . . . The color of the wax was blood-red – not exactly uncommon – but it was the shape pressed into the wax that made him do a double-take. It was the shape of a skull and, surprisingly, it didn’t disturb him as much as it probably should have. He broke the seal and opened the note. Inside, a message was scrawled in messy but legible handwriting. However, there was a kind of . . . method to the madness of the script – almost a sophistication to it. The note read:

 

_**Dear Monsieur Speight,** _

_**What a charming gala. Castiel enjoyed a great success it seems. We were hardly bereft when Meta Tronne left. On that note, the diva’s a disaster. Must you really keep on casting here when he’s so clearly seasons beyond his prime?** _

_**-         O. G.** _

 

          Gabriel stared at the letter. _O. G.?_ What the hell did that mean? Was it the initials of some noblemen, or some rich, potential investor? And to say such things about Meta Tronne! Who was this man?

          By this time, Zachariah had gone to his own desk. He’d opened his own note. While Gabriel’s had focused solely on the event the night before and the stars involved, Zachariah’s was a bit more . . . focused.

 

_**Dear Monsieur Fuller,** _

_**Usually Monsieur Winchester informs our new arrivals about my presence. He did not neglect to do so this time; I simply wanted to send my greeting and requests personally. Monsieur Shurley paid be 20,000 francs a month for my services, and I hope that you will do the same. Perhaps with Mademoiselle Masters as your patron, you can afford more? When you wish to send my salary – which is overdue, I might add – send it care of the ghost by return of post. No one likes a debtor, Monsieur Fuller, so it’d be better for everyone if my orders are obeyed.** _

_**-         O. G.** _

 

          Gabriel and Zachariah, both in a state of shock, exchanged notes. Once they had read the other’s, they seemed to finally snap out of their daze. Zachariah was the first to break the silence. “Who would have the _gall_ to send this?” he demanded, throwing his hands up in the air.

          “Someone with a puerile brain,” Gabriel grumbled, rubbing his temples. His previously jolly mood had since been soured.

          Zachariah slammed a fist down on his desk. “Who _the hell_ is he? He’s mocking our position, and in addition he wants _money!_ ”

          “The man sounds insane!” Gabriel replied dismissively. His partner was getting all worked up over nothing, surely.

          “What does ‘O. G.’ even mean?” the older man went on, furious. “Is he trying to keep a sense of anonymity?”

          The sound of heels clicking on the tile floor in the hall outside got both men’s attention. The voice of Meg Masters was heard before she game into view. “Where is he?” She appeared in the doorway, her face hard – absolutely enraged, actually.

          Gabriel stood to greet her politely, but Zachariah cut him off. “You mean Meta Tronne?”

          “No, Castiel Novak! Where is he?” She was nearly screeching now. Gabriel noticed the held a letter in her hand – a letter with a red, skull-shaped seal. “I want an answer!” she went on, her voice lowering in volume. “I take it this is the letter you wrote.” She held out the letter to Zachariah who promptly snatched it.

          “And what is that we’re meant to have wrote – er, written?” the older man queried sharply. When Meg didn’t reply and Zachariah just continued to stare at her expectantly, Gabriel lost his patience. He stalked over and took the letter from his companion’s hand. As he opened it, he felt Zachariah hovering over his shoulder, waiting anxiously to see the mention within. As Gabriel read the note aloud, Meg leaned up against the wall and folded her arms across her chest. She looked . . . out of sorts – almost offended and wounded all at once. The note’s message was the only thing to be heard as Gabriel’s voice filled the void the silence was creating.

 

_**Mademoiselle Masters,** _

_**Do not fear for Monsieur Novak. The Angel of Music has him under his wing. Please make no attempt to see him again. If you do, it may not end well where you are concerned.** _

_**-         O. G.** _

 

          When neither men responded to the contents, Meg straightened up a little. “Well . . . if you didn’t write it . . . Who did?”

          “OUTRAGE!” a voice boomed from the theatre’s entrance hall. The three rushed out of the office without really thinking – Gabriel still had Meg’s letter clutched in his hand. By the time they reached the foyer where the source of the noise was, they found him almost inconsolable. Meta Tronne stood there, shouting at the cleaners and looking around wildly, demanding to speak to the owners. When he saw Gabriel, Zachariah, and Meg enter, a wicked, devious look appeared in his eyes. “ _There_ she is! Your precious patron!”

          Meg let out a tired sigh. “Oh, what now?”

          “I have your letter – a letter which I rather resent!” Meta Tronne sneered, waving a parchment around. It bore the same seal as the others did.

          Zachariah looked at the woman curiously. “And did you send it?”  
 

         “Of course not!” Meg nearly shouted. She looked at Zachariah in disbelief.

          “As if you’d admit it!” Meta Tronne countered. “You _dare_ tell me that this is not the letter you sent?”

          “And what is it that I supposedly sent?” she asked, taking the letter from him. As her pale blue eyes scanned over the words, they widened. She reread the note aloud so all present could hear:

 

_**Monsieur Meta Tronne,** _

_**Your days at the Opera Populaire are numbered. Castiel Novak will be singing on your behalf tonight. Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to take his place.** _

_**-         O. G.** _

 

          The two owners exchanged a disgruntled, displeased look. They’d just about had enough of this O. G. fellow, whoever he was. Zachariah took his partner by the arm and pulled him aside. “Far too many notes for my taste,” he muttered. “And most of them about Castiel.”

          Gabriel nodded in agreement. “All we’ve heard since we came is this Novak’s name!”

          Them, the doors that sealed off the auditorium from the main hall swung open. Monsieur Winchester entered the scene briskly, cane in hand. His lengthy brown hair billowed around his head as he approached the small crowd of people. “Monsieur Novak has returned,” he announced as he reached the cluster. There was an odd look in his eyes and a strange tone in the choreographer’s voice. He seemed . . . worried, which wasn’t like him at all.

          “Well, I hope his midnight oil is well and truly burned!” Zachariah admonished. “Samuel, perhaps you can explain these—”

          “Where is he?” Meg cut in. She stared at Monsieur Winchester hopefully. All she wanted was to see Castiel – to talk to him and figure out what the hell was going on.

          “I thought it would be best if he went home,” Monsieur Winchester told her softly – gently. “He needed rest.”

          “May I see him?” she continued to press.

          “No, Mademoiselle,” he answered, maybe too quickly. “He will see no one.”

          “Will he sing?” Meta Tronne demanded, loudly. If Castiel was out of commission, it would mean Meta Tronne could take his place. That was what he needed. He had to get back on that stage and make the people love him once more. He needed their attention to return to _him_ and stay off the topic of that young arriviste.

          Much to the dread of the owners, Monsieur Winchester pulled a piece of paper out of the pocket of his black suit. It looked identical to theirs. “I have a note to answer that – a note from the Opera Ghost.”

          “‘Opera Ghost?’” Zachariah repeated incredulously.

          Monsieur Winchester faced him and arched a single eyebrow. His face tightened in confusion. “Did Monsieur Shurley not inform you?”

          “He . . . uh . . . kinda left in a hurry,” Gabriel reminded. His voice was rough; nervous. It was a foolish thing – an old childhood nightmare, really – but talk of ghosts always unnerved him, even if they were _just_ foolish stories.

          “The Opera Ghost has lived here for years,” Monsieur Winchester explained. “No one knows when exactly he arrived, or how long he’s been here. Very few have seen him – myself and Monsieur Lafitte who manages the stage are the few exceptions. He is a mysterious entity who wears a mask on the right side of his face for reasons no one seems to know. However, he is a genius. He has an ear for music unlike any other – if he advises you to do something, it is in your best interest that you do it. He is rarely wrong. Oh, and before you try, you cannot seek him out. He lives in the shadows – always out of sight, but always present, always listening. If the Opera Ghost wants to speak with you, he will find _you_ , not the other way around.”

          The new owners and their patron seemed entranced by this information, but the diva was clearly losing his patience. “Enough of this stupid exposition!” Meta Tronne fumed. “Read the note or give it to me!”

          Monsieur Winchester’s eye twitched as the actor addressed him. He casually – actually, _deliberately slowly_ , is a better phrase – opened up the letter. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat before sharing the contents within.

 

_**Gentlemen,** _

_**I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature detailing how my theater is to be run. You have no followed my instructions . . . However, due to the persuasion of a good friend, I will give you one last chance.** _

_**Castiel Novak has returned to you, and I am anxious that his career should progress. In the new production of “Il Muto,” you shall therefore cast Meta Tronne as the Pageboy and put Monsieur Novak in the role of the Count. The role which Monsieur Novak plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the Pageboy is silent which makes my casting in a word . . . ideal.** _

_**I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box 5, which from this moment onward, shall be kept empty for me. Should these demands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.** _

_**I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant.** _

_**-         O. G.** _

 

          “CASTIEL!” Meta Tronne shrieked. “It’s all a plot to help that little upstart!”

          “Monsieur, please!” Gabriel tried to calm the diva down, to no avail.

          “This is insane . . .” Meg grumbled, running a hand through her chocolate-brown locks.

          Meta Tronne suddenly turned on the young woman, livid. “I know who sent this! It’s _her_ – the Masters girl! She’s his lover! I heard how she went into his dressing room after last night’s show!”

          Meg blanched. She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest. “Monsieur Tronne,” she said harshly. “What _exactly_ are you implying?”

          “Monsieur, please!” Gabriel tried again in the hopes of keeping Meg and Meta Tronne from having a physical altercation “The man – the ghost – whatever he is – it’s mad!”

          “Yes!” Zachariah chipped in. “You are our star!”

          “We don’t take orders!” from Gabriel.

          “Castiel Novak will be playing the Pageboy – the silent role,” Zachariah announced so that all could heard. “Meta Tronne will be playing the lead.”

          Everyone was silent then. Gabriel and Zachariah were looking at Meta Tronne expectantly while the opera singer stared back at them, clearly unimpressed. Meg glared at all of the men, but her mind was somewhere else. Where was Castiel? Why had he stood her up the night before? Who had sent her that note? _Oh, I wish I never saw that devilish fool on stage last night!_ But she had. And now she couldn’t disentangle him from her thoughts.

          Monsieur Winchester was the only one who looked fearful. His blue-green eyes were wide and his lips were slightly parted. He seemed to have been the only person that had actually _paid attention_ to the letter. All he could do was stare at those imbeciles in shock. Did they not hear the _painfully obvious threat_ at the end of the note? Or had they chosen to ignore it? _Are they that stupid?_ he thought. After all, what else could it be? He knew that the new owners didn’t believe in the Phantom of the Opera – not yet, at least – but even then . . . A threat couldn’t even turn their heads? Make them pause for just a moment?

          Finally, Meta Tronne replied to the managers. “It’s useless trying to appease me! I know _damn_ well you’re only saying this to please me!” Without even waiting for an answer, Meta Tronne stalked toward the door. Gabriel and Zachariah rushed after him, trying to stick to his side as well as his fame like a couple of leeches.

          “Please, reconsider!” Gabriel shouted after the prima donna.

          “Please, Monsieur!” Zachariah said, trying a new approach. “Your public _needs_ you! Imagine how heartbroken they’d be if you left us!”

          This made Meta Tronne pause at the door of the opera house. His hand was on the door handle; he could have walked out right then and there. In fact, it probably would have been better for everyone if he had. But he waited, re-evaluated his choice.

          “We need you too,” Gabriel added, going off Zachariah’s comment.

          Meta Tronne looked back at them. He huffed and took his hand off the door. He still seemed ready to protest, but he was sold – he had to sing. He had to put Castiel Novak back in his place. “Wouldn’t you rather have your precious little parvenu?”

          “Monsieur, no,” Gabriel assured.

          Zachariah added, “The world wants _you._ Please, Meta Tronne – great us with your performance! Enchant us once again!”

          “Can you bow out when your fans are shouting your name?” Gabriel queried.

          By now, Monsieur Winchester had turned away from them. Meta Tronne would sing – he knew that was certain. Right now, he was just milking the new owners for all he could get and enjoying the attention. They were lost – done for. “Beware to those who scorn his word,” he whispered under his breath. “The Angel sees. The Angel knows.”

          “So what if you took a snub?” Zachariah went on. “Your song shall live again!”

          Meg watched the two grown men grovel as though they were kissing the king’s feet. The entire display was discussing, really. The only thing she could _hope_ to get out of this disaster was more money. By funding the opera house, she also got a decent share of the profits it made. _At least if Meta Tronne sings, the money is guaranteed . . . Practically giftwrapped._ And yet, something _still_ bugged her. She looked down and saw the note she had handed to Gabriel. He must have dropped it when he’d gone pining after Meta Tronne. She looked around quickly before picking it up. The paper felt oddly brittle under her skin and almost rough to the touch. She opened it up and scanned the message once more. _The Angel of Music,_ she thought. _Castiel spoke of an Angel that night . . . He said that he heard the Angel of Music sing to him . . ._

          The owners continued to flatter Meta Tronne ceaselessly. “Those who hear your voice liken you to an angel! Think of your audience’s cry of undying support!”

          Monsieur Winchester paused at the door to the auditorium. He looked back at the fools that stood there. They were all so oblivious to the danger they had so willingly placed themselves in. “Heaven help you, those who doubt his resolve,” he whispered.

          _Is this his Angel of Music . . . ?_

Zachariah, “You sing again and land an unending ovation!”

          Gabriel, “Prima Donna, your song shall never die!”

          Meta Tronne, “I suppose I cannot let my fans down.”

          Monsieur Winchester, whispered, “This miscasting will invite damnation upon you.”

 _Is this a ghost, or an angel, or a madman?_ Meg continued to wonder.

          Gabriel, “Listen to us plead, Monsieur!”

          Zachariah, “The ghost is a lunatic! He does not speak for us, nor does he speak for the good citizens of Paris!”

          Monsieur Winchester, “Think, you fools! Think before these demands are rejected – he will retaliate.”

          _Is it a voice from hell, or from Heaven?_

          Monsieur Winchester, “If they have the Mademoiselle sit in Box 5 again, another game will begin.”

          _And which has found Castiel? Bliss or damnation? Could he even tell the difference?_

          Monsieur Winchester turned away from them completely. He entered the auditorium, his head held high. “Come what may, Castiel Novak must be protected. It is what _he_ would want.”

          “A ballet boy who slept with the patron is nothing compared to you!” Zachariah continued to encourage.

          _But if the Angel’s curse is on this opera house . . ._

          “The world will be at your feet when the performance is complete!” from Gabriel.

          _Then I fear the outcome of this contest._

          “Please, light up the stage with that age-old rapport!” Gabriel cheered.

          “Sing, prima donna, once more!” sprang from both their lips.

          By then, Meta Tronne was practically purring with approval. “I shall sing,” he announced. He was barely able to speak those words; never in his career had he experienced so much flattering. It was a massive stoke to his ego which was already incriminatingly large.“I shall sing once more!”

          The owners whooped and hollered at this. In fact, they were so pleased that they did a giddy dance. Mademoiselle Masters looked on with a blank expression. Her gut was twisted in several different ways – her instincts were telling her that they had just made a terrible mistake. And then, as if only to add to her uneasiness, she felt a chill go up her spine. Instinctively, she looked about her. It was almost as if she was being watched. She shuddered at the thought.

          However, Meg Masters’s instincts did not deceive her. For high above their heads in a secret, stony corridor, an ear was pressed up against a vent. It carefully listened and gathered every word that was said. And it listened with a vengeance. After Meta Tronne’s announcement that _he_ would be taking the role of the Count, it could take no more.

          There was a low growl from the shadows. “So,” a dark and oddly inviting voice snarled. “It is to be war between us.” The man that spoke straightened up and pushed his cape off his arm. “I warned you, and you deliberately ignored me. I gave you a chance to fix things between us – I gave you a chance to resolve this peacefully. Let it be known that you, Monsieurs, _you_ forced my hand.”

 

\- - - -

 

          After Castiel had emerged from the Phantom’s lair, he had been found, rather randomly, by Monsieur Winchester. While Castiel was surprised to see him, the choreographer acted as if it were a scheduled meeting that he’d known about for days. He escorted Castiel back to the room he shared with the other male dancers. By the time they got there, all of the dancers were gone, which was good for Castiel. “Rest,” Monsieur Winchester had ordered. “Recover from your night. I will make sure that no one bothers you.”

          Castiel had just nodded, still wounded from his conversation with his Angel. He had complied with Monsieur Winchester’s requests. He didn’t even bother to ask how Monsieur Winchester had even _known_ about Castiel’s night out. He didn’t even have the desire or the brainpower to even process it. He just laid down in his bed and stared at the ceiling until sleep claimed him.

          His dreams were full of music and darkness. The Angel made several appearances. Sometimes he was clad in his white mask, beckoning Castiel forward. He would kiss the human all over – practically worship him with his lips and his tongue. And then other times, the Angel would be gone. Instead, it was the Phantom with his disfigured face glaring at Castiel from the shadows. He cursed at the Angel’s lover and when he touched him, it was rough. While the Angel caressed and cherished, the Phantom devoured and claimed. So many times in his dreams did it switch back and forth between the two entities. One moment it was the Angel kissing his lips and making love to him. The next, the Phantom had Castiel on belly and was pressing him into the bed, claiming him as his own and biting at his flesh.

          He loved the Angel – the voice in his head that had been with him since he came to the opera house; the voice that sang songs in his head and brought him peace and comfort – but had quickly grown to dislike the Phantom – the voice in the darkness that threatened to choke him and lock him away from the rest of the world out of pure jealousy.

          But how could he love one and not the other?

          They were the same person, were they not?

          When Castiel awoke the next morning, these questions were swirling around in his head as well as several others. The events of the previous night had finally dawned on him. He had not only ran off with the Angel of Music/Phantom of the Opera for one night, but he’d been intimate with him – another man. What did this mean? Were they moving too fast? Castiel hardly knew him . . . or did he?

          Castiel had known the Angel since he was a boy. When his father died and he was sent to the opera house to work, the Angel had been there. He had comforted him in his time of pain. He gave Castiel his voice. He tutored him. He showed him how beautiful and how incredible music could really be. He took Castiel to new places the boy had never even imagined. And that was through their conversations alone. Castiel hadn’t even laid eyes on his Angel until the night before. So, really, he’d known the Angel for years. He’d known him, and yet, at the same time, he knew nothing about him.

          The boy sighed. He had a lot of things to think about . . . A lot of things to take into consideration. And yet, they didn’t really seem that important. What was done was done. Castiel had given himself to the Angel. He’d given up his virginity to him. That was done and could never be undone. It might not have been wise – it might have been too rushed – but he didn’t regret it. He was glad that it _was_ with the Angel – proud of it. And so what if he didn’t know the Angel as well as he thought he did?

          He had spent years getting to where he was now and he was still very young. He had years left to discover the true face of the Angel of Music and the Phantom of the Opera.

          As he hung his legs over the side of the bed to rise, he saw something sitting on the small desk next to him. It looked like some kind of note. Castiel looked around, wondering if one of the other dancers had left it on accident. Curiously, he took it off the desk and examined it. The paper was thin and a bit stiff under his fingers. The wax seal was dark red, and the shape of a skull was imprinted in it. He gently opened it, hoping that it was in fact for him and wasn’t Balthazar’s or Alfie’s. As his eyes skimmed over the message, however, he realized that the letter was meant for him. Not only that, but it was from his Angel.

 

_**My Dear Castiel,** _

_**I must apologize for my behavior this morning . . . I realize now that it was incredibly rude of me. Rude and uncalled for . . . And I beg for your forgiveness. Castiel, you must understand me . . . When you removed my mask, my reaction was just an instinct. I immediately thought that you’d ruined everything. I had been so happy lying in bed with you. I had been so happy . . . And then, I was so sure that you had ruined it. I thought that once you saw my face you would flee in fear. You would never want to see me again.** _

_**Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps I was not. I suppose that only time will tell. You say you want to see the man behind the mask, Castiel. Well, I have news for you: the man inside is even more distorted than the face you saw. If you wish to continue this unorthodox relationship of ours, I would be more than pleased to do so. However, if you think that, even for a second, you may back out. Please do not seek me out. Do not reply. Make no attempts to see me.** _

_**I do not mean to be harsh. I have to do this, Castiel. I have to do this to protect myself.** _

_**Because once I let you in, I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave.** _

_**Please do not shrug this letter off. Think seriously about what I’ve said here. Don’t let some foolish, fleeting notion of love or passion make this decision for you. Don’t let our night together decide. I want you to decide – I want you, Castiel. I want all of you. I want your body. I want your voice. I want your mind. I want your heart. I want it all. And I want it to myself. But I want all of it. Not part of it. If I allow myself to feel for you more than I already do – if I allow you to do the same – I need to know that you’re in this with everything you have.** _

_**I don’t wish to frighten you. Well, perhaps that is a lie. Maybe I do. Maybe it would be better if you were frightened. Maybe it would be easier for all of us. I do not know the answer to that question.** _

_**I suppose it’s for you to decide.** _

_**-         Your Angel** _


	8. Who is the Phantom of the Opera?

          Castiel did as Monsieur Winchester suggested. He stayed in bed all day, the Angel’s message swirling around in his head. It was empowering – reassuring – that the Angel felt so strongly. Not only did he want to be with Castiel, but he seemed to feel more passionately than Castiel could have ever imagined. He wanted to see his Angel again and tell him how much he cared. He wanted to kiss and feel him again – the thought alone was enough to intoxicate the boy. But he forced himself to slow down and think. His heart was crying out for the Angel, but his brain was still haunted by the Phantom he’d met in his dreams. It was caught up on the venom and rage that had been in the Angel’s voice when Castiel had taken off the mask. It was just a reaction – the Angel had been afraid and in pain. It was a self-defense mechanism. That’s all.

          But he couldn’t push it from his mind.

          That evening, Castiel decided that he had to do something. He went and ate dinner with Balthazar and a few of the other dancers. He listened with one lazy ear to their trivial talk. He sipped on the wine that Anias had stolen from the maestro’s hidden stash. He forced himself to smile as Balthazar made passes some of the ballerinas that had joined them. After several laughable attempts at seduction, one of the ballerinas – the one that had captured Balthazar’s normally fair-weathered heart – chased him off. Castiel recognized her as Rebekah, a nimble, little thing a few years younger than himself. Balthazar had said on multiple occasions that he would find a way to win her heart and that he loved her more than any other female he’d ever laid eyes on. While Balthazar’s declarations of love were a bit extreme and perhaps exaggerated, Castiel had a feeling that they were genuine. That or Balthazar just wanted her for her rather voluptuous backside.

          After comically chasing Balthazar away, Rebekah and her small crew of ballerinas sat down with the boys. They shared the wine, did some flirting, and won several hearts that night. However, there were some male dancers that considered eye-contact an invitation for anything and everything . . . and the wine didn’t exactly help their cause. But the ballerinas cheerfully went along with the boys’ love games. Sometimes they led them along on for a good laugh, other times they were actually interested although the latter was very rare. Most of the girls laughed, drank, and made merry with the gentleman around them except for one. She, much like Castiel, just sat in silence. She smiled or covered her mouth as she giggled at something particularly ridiculous one of her companions did. But other than that, she looked just as out-of-place at this party as Castiel did.

          Castiel knew the girl – or knew her name, at least. He’d heard a lot about her, actually. The quiet girl with long golden locks and piercing blue eyes was none other than Jessica Moore. The sole reason Castiel even knew this was because Monsieur Winchester was rather fond of her. Just like the Angel looked after and mentored Castiel, Monsieur Winchester did that for her. He spent extra time with her – making sure she knew the steps and helping her whenever he could. Castiel never missed the way Monsieur Winchester’s eyes lit up when he noticed Jessica was in the room. It was bizarre to most – seeing the choreographer who was usually so harsh and strict look so . . . happy. On more than one occasion, Castiel had asked the older man if he intended to court her. In all honesty, Castiel thought they would be a good match. But Samuel Winchester always answered in the negative. “I’m too old for her,” he’d say. And Castiel would respond, “You’re only twenty-six.” And then Monsieur Winchester would reply, “She is seventeen.” And then the conversation would end. Castiel always tried – unsuccessfully – to convince his friend to at least say something to her or let her know that he felt for her in this way. That was until Monsieur Winchester had banned that topic from their conversations.

          “Did you hear about what happened this morning?” one of the ballerinas asked, breaking Castiel’s train of thought. He looked up from his glass of wine with mild interest. The ballerina that had spoken wasn’t as delicate as the others, but there was a definite appeal. She had a nice face and a soothing smile. Castiel couldn’t remember her name, but he was sure that it started with an A.

          “No, what?” Ezekiel, another one of the male dancers, asked. When A didn’t immediately respond, he continued to press with a smile. “Don’t keep us waiting!”

          The girl leaned in closer. “Meta Tronne showed up,” she explained. “Apparently he, the new managers, and that Masters girl all got notes from the Phantom of the Opera!”

          Mention of the Phantom got Castiel’s attention immediately. He began to listen closer, on the edge of his seat. What had his Angel done?

          Bartholomew motioned anxiously for A to go on. “And?”

          “I guess that . . .” she paused, her green eyes finding Castiel in the crowd. She blinked at him through thick eyelashes before pushing a short lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I guess that the Phantom demanded that in next week’s production, Castiel Novak, play the lead.”

          The party that had previously been full of mirth and jokes was now dead silent. Slowly, all eyes turned to the black-haired boy sitting in the corner. Seconds passed in silence – too many to count. And then, Balthazar’s voice rose up. “The Phantom always did have good taste!” he announced. “He knew how to cast – who could _really_ sing! Castiel damn well deserves to be the star of the show!”

          This got a few “Hear-hears!” and a round of applause. A few people even chanted Castiel’s name. The boy felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment.

          When the crowd died down, the ballerina spoke again. “The Phantom wanted Castiel to play the Count, but Meta Tronne didn’t like it.”

          “Of course he didn’t,” Uriel snorted. “Tell us something we don’t know!”

          “But I guess the owners didn’t like being ordered around either .  . . They made Meta Tronne the Count and . . .” she paused, her eyes finding Castiel again. The boy gulped. What did they do to him? Had the Angel gotten him fired?

          “What?” Castiel asked aloud. It was the first time he’d spoken all night. _Angel . . . Oh, what if they fired me? What if I have to leave? I’ll leave you. I’ll never see you again!_

          “They cast you as the Pageboy,” she said softly. “It’s a silent role.”

          Castiel let out a sigh of relief even though a few of his friends shouted in outrage. At least he still had his job. He made a mental note to bring this up with his Angel later.

          “I can’t wait to see what the Phantom decides to do,” Balthazar said so all could hear him. “I mean, he favors Casitel – with reason – and when he sees that the owners ignored him . . . I’m anxious to see this.”

          “I wouldn’t be if I were you,” a new voice interjected.

          Everyone turned to see a middle-aged man leaning up against a beam in the corner of the small dining room. He wore a black cap that covered a mop of dark brown hair. A beard decorated his face; it was trimmed close to his cheeks, chin, and jaw and looked as if he took good care of it. He wore a working man’s clothes – a simple blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and black pants. He stared at the young dancers, his eyes icy. “Tha Phantom of the Opera ain’t somethin’ ta be messed wid.” He glanced around at the silent, attentive faces before continuing. “People joke about ’im – say ’e ain’t real. Some laugh at ’im, call ’im a story ole Samuel Winchester made up to frighten the ballerinas inta stayin’ in their beds at night. But I knew better – I’ve seen the devil.”

          Everyone was listening closely, captivated. They devoured every word the man said eagerly, Castiel too. He’d heard before that the stage manager, Benny Lafitte, had encountered the Phantom several times while he worked. It seemed logical – Benny was always backstage, or above it checking the ropes. He went places that were usually dark and vacant. It only made sense that he’d stumble across the Phantom every now and then. However, Castiel didn’t really want to believe him. He wanted to think that his Angel was too smart to get caught. He wanted to think that he was the only person that saw him. It was a foolish desire, but it burned through him – scorched him and left him reeling. Yes, the flames of jealousy were only just beginning to kindle in the boy’s heart.

          “What did he look like?” Jessica interrogated softly.

          Benny cracked a smile. “He wasn’t as pretty as you, Mademoiselle,” he relayed, tipping his hat to her. He pushed himself away from the beam and went to stand beside her chair. “Naw, he was ugly. Tall . . . skinny . . . pale as a sheet. He even wore a cape, but that’s not the weirdest part, either. Every time I’ve seen ’im, he had a mask coverin’ tha one side a’ his face.”

          Castiel stiffened. He began to ring his hands. Why were Benny’s words riling him up so badly?

          “A mask?” Bartholomew repeated, clearly unconvinced by the stage manager’s story. “Why the hell would he wear a mask?”

          “Dunno,” Benny answered matter-of-factly. “No one’s ever seen what’s behind it – no one’s ever dared get close enough. He’s a terror, after all. A monster. He kills without a thought – murders all that’s good! And if ya stumble across him, you turn and ya run. Ya run as fast as ya can. Sometimes, he’ll let ya go – have pity on ya. But other times, his lust for blood just consumes him.” His voice dropped significantly. He looked around at his audience once again, and leaned in close to Jessica’s ears. “And he’ll try to catch you with his magical lasso. All he has to do is get it around your neck, and that’s it!”

          Jessica let out a sudden shriek as Benny teasingly wrapped a rope around her shoulders. At first, everyone jumped at the sudden movement, but once they saw that Benny was just fooling around, they let out a few nervous chuckles. Castiel’s heart was hammering in his chest. He watched Benny lean in close, trying to mooch a kiss off poor Jessica. “Let me go, you ruffian!” she admonished with a shake of her head.

          “Aw, c’mon, darlin’. Jus’ one kiss,” Benny persisted. “On tha cheek?”

          “No, now let me go!” Jessica hissed, struggling against his hold on the rope. The other dancers had split off into their own conversations already, ignoring the two of them. Balthazar had already regained the attention of the crowd by talking about the time he met what he thought was a Swiss girl near the border and tried to pursue her. Castiel had heard this tale numerous time, and he knew that punchline in the end that the “Swiss girl” was actually a man dressed in questionable clothing with hair too long for his own good. Castiel watched, waiting to see if Benny would let her go or not; he wasn’t worried for Jessica, or anything. Benny could be a bit abrasive, but he was harmless. It was all in good fun, and Castiel knew that the stage manager would never hurt the girl.

          “Please?” Benny nearly whined.

          “She said no, Monsieur Lafitte!”

          Another silence descended upon the dancers. Benny stood up straight as a board at the sound of the voice that he knew all too well. Castiel felt his lips curl in a small smile; the next few minutes would be bad for Benny, but they might be good for Samuel Winchester. The choreographer walked into the room, cane in hand, as always. The only sound that could be heard was Monsieur Winchester’s shoes on the wooden floor. He approached the stage manager with sharp eyes.

          “Monsieur Winchester,” Benny greeted politely, but there was fear in his voice. “I was just—”

          “Just harassing an innocent girl,” Monsieur Winchester stated simply. “She told you to let her go, and I suggest you do so.”

          Benny nodded swiftly and lifted the rope from around Jessica’s shoulders. The girl gave Monsieur Winchester a grateful look, pushing a stray piece of blond hair behind her ear. But Sam wasn’t done with his stage manager. “Monsieur Lafitte, the next time you wish to entrance my pupils with one of your silly stories, hold your tongue. Those who speak of what things they should not know to begin with find only too late that prudent silence is wise. If he were to hear you spreading such tales and treating young women in such a fashion . . . It would not end well for you, Monsieur Lafitte. Keep that in mind.”

          The man nodded quickly before fleeing from the room with haste. When he was gone, Monsieur Winchester overlooked his students. “I assume you all heard of . . . this morning’s events. Meta Tronne has returned to the opera house and will be playing the Count in next week’s production. I know that there are many here – myself included – that believe that our very own Castiel should have gotten the role.”

          There were a few shouts of affirmation. Castiel felt awkward again and wished he could just disappear. If only I could hide in the shadow like my Angel.

          “However,” Monsieur Winchester called over the noise. “We have no say in the casting. Instead of whining or complaining about it, we must move forward and do the best we can with what we have been given . . . even if it is not much. Tomorrow, we will begin rehearsal bright and early so don’t retire too late this evening. Enjoy the wine that I see one of you swiped from Monsieur Crowley’s supply. I hope for your sake he doesn’t catch you drinking it. It won’t matter who did it, you’d all have hell to pay. Now, Mademoiselle Moore . . . may I pull you aside for just one moment?”

          Castiel sighed as Jessica got up from her seat and left the room with the choreographer. He was happy for Sam, but there were other things on his mind. Sam had always believed in the Phantom – he’d always been his number one advocate, actually. But the way he spoke about him . . . it just seemed odd. As if Sam knew him. Castiel knew that Sam had seen the Phantom, but . . . He didn’t have a relationship with him like Castiel did. _Did he?_

          _No,_ Castiel tried to push the thought from his mind. _Sam loves Jessica – he always has . . . He doesn’t . . . He and the Angel aren’t . . ._

          His head hurt; now it was another thing he had to bring up with his Angel. They had so much to talk about, and it was already getting late. _I have to find him . . . Get into the dressing room again and use the mirror, maybe. I better hurry._ And so, he excused himself from the party much to Balthazar’s displeasure and hurried off with the claim that he was still exhausted from his performance.

          Castiel headed to the dressing room only to find it locked. “Damn it all to hell!” he’d hissed when he jiggled the knob and found it unyielding. Now, there was only one other place he knew to speak to his Angel. So he went down to the little chapel again. Hopefully, Balthazar wouldn’t interrupt this time. For once, he was grateful that Rebekah was upstairs in the little gathering – perhaps she would keep him distracted for a while.

          The chapel was dark and as empty as always. Castiel wasted no time and lit the candles. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had no idea if this would work or not – he didn’t even know if his Angel was listening. All he could do was hope.

 

“ _Angel of Music, guide and guardian,_

_Grant to me your glory!_

_Angel of Music, hide no longer!_

_Come to me, strange Angel._ ”

 

          Castiel was met with silence. He waited for a few minutes, and those minutes dragged on until he lost track of the time. Every now and then, he would repeat his little song, praying that the Angel was close enough to hear him. But there was no response. Castiel hung his head in defeat. Had the Angel chosen to ignore him because Castiel had taken off his mask? Or was he still afraid that Castiel was afraid of him? Or did he just not hear him?

          “Castiel.”

          The boy jumped and looked around eagerly. “Angel?” he cried out. He’d come! He’d heard him!

          “Castiel,” the voice sighed, and then the boy recognized it; it wasn’t his Angel at all. Samuel Winchester came down the spiraling stairs and stepped into the chapel. He looked at the younger boy curiously, and then at the candles. “What are you doing down here?”

          “I was . . . trying to talk to him,” Castiel confessed. He avoided Sam’s eyes, not wanting to see the confusion or the judgment there. Sam had always been understanding of Castiel’s exploits with the Angel of Music. He even assisted Castiel – encouraged him to seek the Angel out. But he could sense a change in Sam’s attitude; it was almost as if he was worried for Castiel.

          However, Sam just nodded. “I see. He did not answer?”

          Castiel shook his head.

          “Perhaps it is for the best . . .” Without warning, Sam knelt down beside the boy. “Castiel . . . I have to talk to you about next week.”

          “Okay,” Castiel said, unsure where exactly Sam was going with this.

          The choreographer looked up at the mural of Michael the archangel on the wall. He put a hand on Castiel shoulder and sighed. “The Phantom sent notes to Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller this morning, as you know. The Phantom . . . threatened them in his message. He said that if you were not cast as the Count and if they refused the rest of his demands, a disaster would occur.”

          Castiel froze. _What?_ His Angel definitely was forceful – he knew that from experience. He also knew that the Angel left little to no room for argument . . . But would he really threaten the owners? The threat itself wasn’t really scary – words were just words, after all – but it was the fact that the Angel would follow through with what he said. “Sam—” 

          “He won’t come after you,” the choreographer cut him off. “The Angel is . . . Well, he may be insane, but he feels for you, Castiel. He won’t harm you no matter what happens. But I still think that you need to be aware of what is to come and be protected from it.”

          “Do you know what he’ll do?” the boy asked in a whisper. The thought of being out on stage in a week’s time was no terrifying to him. This wasn’t his Angel anymore – no, his Angel would never do this. This was the Phantom – the one he _feared_. “I mean . . . do you think he’ll . . . hurt someone?” He looked at Sam then, his blue eyes wide at the thought. He despised Meta Tronne and wasn’t particularly fond of the new owners, but he didn’t want to see anything bad happen to them! Castiel would never wish ill on anyone.

          Sam shook his head in response. “I do not know . . . He has always been mysterious that way -- he finds new ways to . . . make a spectacle of himself.”

          His words pricked Castiel’s curiosity. How did Sam know this? Sam had been there longer than Castiel, but maybe only a decade more. And from what he gathered, the Angel/Phantom had never been so active before. So why did Sam know so much? “Sam . . .” he began, thinking over what he would say next very carefully. “What do you know about him? How do you know him?”

          Sam didn’t answer at first. He looked back up to the picture of the angel. “I remember when he first met you,” the choreographer murmured. “He was so _happy_ , Castiel. I brought him food that evening, and he rushed up to me like a boy . . . He went on and on about you and your voice . . . He said you called him ‘Angel,’” Sam let out a small chuckle at the memory. “He couldn’t get over that. He was just . . . so happy that you’d called him an _Angel_ of all things. He’d been called a lot of things through his life . . . ‘monster,’ ‘abomination,’ ‘demon,’ ‘the Devil’s child’ . . . And then you come along and call him Angel.”

          Castiel listened in both confusion and wonder. Sam had regular contact with him? Brought him food?

          “He kept saying how wonderful you were – a good singer, a polite boy . . . He was in love with you from the moment he spoke to you – I could see it in his eyes. You see, I was the only one that loved him for a long time, Castiel. And then he found you, and everything changed – he changed. He was happier, as if he’d found a real reason to live.”

          He wanted to be happy about that. He wanted to relish in and feel proud and pleased that he had made his Angel happy. But he couldn’t. He was hung up on something else Sam had said: “I was the only one that loved him.” His vision blurred slightly. His Angel and Sam really were . . . “You and . . . You two . . . ?”

          Sam stared at him in bewilderment. “What? No!” he quickly amended. “No, that’s not what I meant, Castiel. We aren’t . . . lovers. The Phantom of the Opera is my brother.”


	9. Monsieur Winchester Tells a Tale

          “I don’t remember my brother when he looked . . . well, normal. And he _did_ look like a regular human being at one point in his life. But that was before I was born. My parents, from what I told, were happy then. My father was a productive member of society and not a lonely, bitter drunk. He loved my brother and me – cared for us without question. They both did. My brother always told me how beautiful our mother was. He said that she was like an angel. Every night, she would sing him to sleep . . . And I guess she was part of the reason why he loves music so much – she was the one who initiated it.

          “And then one night, everything fell apart. Our house caught on fire – it started in my brother’s room. At least, that is what I have always been told. Our mother ran in to get him while she sent my father outside with me. My brother got out but my mother . . . the ceiling caved in and she got trapped underneath one of the beams. He tried to pull her out, but he was still just a little boy. He wasn’t strong enough, and she’d told him to get out and save himself.

          “When my brother came out of that house . . . The right side of his face was burned beyond recognition – to the point where it didn’t even _look_ like a face anymore, but something out of a Gothic novel. Our father – John – never forgave him for walking out alone. He wanted our mother to walk out of that house, not him . . . He couldn’t cope with her death – he was delusional. He actually thought my brother _intended_ to burn the house down; that my brother had _wanted_ to kill our mother. Of course, he was insane – completely unstable. I knew that it was just a story he’d made up to make himself feel better. Although he never admitted it and my brother would kill me if he ever knew I thought this, I think it was John’s way of comforting himself. He blamed his eldest son when I think he _truly_ blamed himself for not being there to save her – for not sending _her_ outside with the baby.

          “From that moment on, my brother wore a mask to cover the scarred side of his face. It was many years before I saw him without it – almost a decade, in fact. I was ten-years-old when he finally believed that I could handle the sight. I had always been curious – always asked – but he refused each time. He told me that it wasn’t something for kids to look at. I didn’t understand it then – he was only four years older than me, after all. I thought that _he_ was just as much a child as I was. But no matter what, he would never let me look until my tenth birthday.

          “I remember it vividly. Our father was asleep in his room. We lived in the country then. My father believed that the further away we were from civilization, the less chance people would see my brother’s face. He had to travel to town each night for work so he spent most of the day sleeping. My brother pulled me aside and gave me a little speech about how he thought it was finally time for me to know the truth. I pretended to listen and nodded wherever I felt the need to. I think he knew that I wasn’t paying attention, but he took the mask off anyway. His mask back then wasn’t like the one he has now. It was made of wood – something our father had carved for him. It wasn’t a gift – it was like a brand. Our father gave it to him and forced him to wear it because he was ashamed of his face. My brother complied and never took it off, as far as I knew. But when the mask finally came off, I remembered shrinking away in fear.

          “It was involuntary, and to this day I feel awful for it. I remember the wounded look on his face – the agony in his eyes. His own _brother_ had rejected him. I apologized afterwards. I tried to tell him that I wasn’t afraid of _him_ , but the face just startled me, you know? He just nodded and told me he understood, but I know he didn’t.

          “Even after he showed me, he never felt comfortable enough to _not_ wear it around me. Of course, I don’t doubt that he believed that I was scared of him, now. That and I knew that our father forbade him to take it off. But he always had chances too – opportunities when our father was passed out drunk. He could have taken it off, but he never did. He always had to have it on, as if it was his security blanket. It was just something that _soothed_ him.

          “My father hated him, as I’ve already mentioned. As I got older, he tried to teach me to do the same, but I couldn’t find it in me. For a long time, I wanted to. I know it sounds horrible, but I did. My father wanted me to – expected me to. And when he found out that I didn’t – that I couldn’t – he acted as if I’d failed him in some way. I told him that I _wanted_ to hate my brother. I _wanted_ to hate the boy that supposedly killed my mother. But the truth was: my brother had never treated me with anything but kindness. He looked out for me no matter what – took care of me when our father was passed out drunk. He made sure I had clothes to wear and food to eat.

          “I can’t imagine how hard it was to make sure that I had all those things. Our father didn’t like him to leave the house – ashamed of his appearance. And the nearest town was hours away on foot. Even if he wore a mask, our father still made him stay inside. I guess he just wanted my brother to suffer in every way possible. He couldn’t hurt the fire that had taken our mother, so he attacked the next best thing. He beat him every day, teased him, cursed at him . . . And then . . . Then our father found out that he liked men.

          “I don’t think I’d ever been so scared in my whole life. I think I was eleven, maybe twelve. That would make my brother about fifteen or sixteen. If I remember correctly, my brother kept some kind of journal. He wrote anything that struck him down in it. He wrote about his daily life, about how he felt . . . and he wrote down that he didn’t think that any of the girls that passed by the house each day looked attractive. Instead, he talked about how the boy that lived across the street was . . . well . . . _appealing_ to him. Our father must have found it one day and . . . I guess it was the last straw for him.

          “I wasn’t there when it started – our father had sent me to town something up – I don’t even remember what it was. When I returned, I heard shouts and curses coming from the house. I thought someone had broken in and was attacking my family. I ran inside and saw my brother on the floor. His mask had been torn off and my father was just . . . beating him. I think that if I hadn’t come back when I did, our father would have beaten him to death; I got there just in time. I tried to pull our father off him, but he was too strong and I was still too young. I didn’t know what to do – I couldn’t just stand there, you know? The only thing close to a weapon that I could find was a rope, so I tossed it to my brother. And I watched as he managed to wrap it around our father’s throat . . .”

          Sam had to pause for a few moments. He would never forget that moment for as long as he lived – the moment he watched his big brother commit his first murder. He remembered watching his brother strangle their father to death with his lips curled upward, almost in satisfaction. It was the moment where everything changed – when he realized that there was darkness in his brother. Whether he had been born with that darkness, or whether it was a result of the mutilation, Sam didn’t know. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

          “He smiled as he killed him,” Sam began again. He couldn’t look at Castiel. He didn’t even want to know what the boy looked like. He didn’t want to imagine what was rushing through his head. All Sam could do is hope that his words hadn’t just ruined his brother’s chances of finally finding happiness. _If Castiel cares for him as much as I think he does . . . this won’t scare him away. But if I’m wrong . . ._

          “And when it was over, he put his mask back on and took my hand. He told me we had to go – had to run somewhere else before someone found our father’s body. And that’s what we did. We traveled from town to town. I did some work here and there and he stole whatever else we needed. He never went out during the day – always stayed in the shadows, or in some dark alley. We went on like that for a year or so. And then a circus came to town.

          “Well, maybe _circus_ is a bit of a stretch. It was a traveling band of gypsies, really. There were all sorts of oddities there – people so large you swore they couldn’t be real, people who had ink all over their bodies in intricate patterns, dwarves, people with two heads. I thought that it would be . . . well, a _good_ place for him. I thought that he and I could both get jobs working for them – doing manual labor. I thought he might feel better about himself if he was around other people like himself. It was foolish, of course. But back then, my naïve little mind thought it just might work.

          “I got a job working there, and my brother stayed with me. No one questioned him for a long time. No one asked about his mask. Then again, I suppose that they were used to that sort of thing. About a month after traveling with them, one of gypsies began to get curious. My brother was . . . oh, fifteen maybe? The gypsy managed to overpower him though and . . . took the mask off by force. When the gypsy saw what was underneath, at first he was horrified. He called my brother the Devil’s Child. And it didn’t stop there. He told everyone in our little caravan about my brother’s deformity. When the ringleader – for all intents and purposes – heard of his face, he made him another display. My brother became a part of the show. They threw away his wooden mask and put a bag over his head. They only ever took it off when people came to look at him.

          “They kept him in a cage . . . Oh, Castiel. I’ll never forget it. They locked him in a cage like he was some kind of animal. They would go inside when people came and throw him to the ground. They beat the hell out of him to make sure he wouldn’t put up a fight, and then they’d take off the bag. I remember how the people – the girls and boys – screamed at the sight of him. The adults were either horrified, disgusted, or they laughed and spit in his face.

          “It was my fault, Castiel. It was all my fault. If I hadn’t brought him there – if I had been so stupid, it never would have happened. I tried to make up for it – I tried to make it better. I snuck into his cage at night when the others were asleep and I’d tend to the wounds his ‘keepers’ gave him. I’d bring him extra food after dinner and slip it through the bars. For years, he’d taken care of me and now it was my turn to take care of him.

          “I can’t tell you how long we lived like this. It was long, but I don’t know if it was a year. We arrived in Paris just before my twelfth birthday. We were performing on the outskirts of the city. It was a rather dull night – not a lot of action. Truthfully, not a lot of people really came to the shows. They were either afraid that the gypsies would rob them, or afraid of what they kept in cages for the public to view.

          “But there were fewer people than usual last night. I think they maybe had two groups of observers walk through. After the second one, they decided to shut everything down early. They decided to give the people that monitored our . . . _attractions_ the night off. I usually stayed in the tent where my brother was held, and I was there that night. But I stepped out for a few minutes. I wanted to find him something to eat before dinner – anything to help him. When I came back . . . it was like my father all over again.

          “The man who was stationed to watch over and . . . control my brother had apparently entered his cage. I guess the second group of visitors had thrown coins at my brother to show their . . . appreciation. The man went inside to retrieve them instead of asking my brother to give them to him. I guess that earlier that evening – or maybe a few days before -- my brother had gotten his hands on some rope. When the man entered his cage, my brother attacked . . . strangled him to death.

          “I came back just as the man took his final breath. I stood there in the entrance of the tent, staring at the scene before me. Memories of our father’s death came rushing back to me. They were too fresh, too vibrant. I remember being afraid . . . afraid that he would come after me now. After all, I was the one that brought him to that life. I was the one that condemned him to torture and torment. But he wasn’t angry with me. He wasn’t even resentful. Once he was certain the man was dead, my brother used his keeper’s keys to unlock his cage. He rushed out and grabbed my arm, much like he had after he killed our father.

          “‘C’mon, Sammy,’ he said. ‘We have to get out of here. When they find out what I did, they’ll try to kill me.’ And we ran. We fled deeper into the cities. He was so confident that once we got in the heart of Paris, we could lose them. We ran all night. I knew that the gypsies pursued us, but we never directly saw them. But we knew that they were there – hunting us; hunting him.

          “Before dawn, we saw the opera house. I knew that I could probably get inside at daybreak when it opened. My brother said that they were always looking for people to work backstage. I don’t know if that’s entirely true, but it was the best bet we had. But then came the dilemma of what would happen to him. He suggested that I leave him – that I go into the opera house and he take off on his own. He said that I would be better off without him -- that I would be happier. But I refused to let him leave. He was my brother, after all. I wasn’t going to let him live through his life and face the consequences of his face alone. That’s when I saw the grate.

          “It was on the side of the opera house – a drainage mechanism of some sort. I knew that it led to some kind of sewer underneath – maybe catacombs. It seemed like a good place to hide, but not to live. I suggested it to him, and he swiftly agreed. He seemed almost . . . relieved to have a place to go. We managed to pry off the grate and my brother slipped inside.

          “It was only after he went inside and I tried to find him afterward that I realized how large it was. It was a sewer system and a kind of catacombs, but it was bigger than I could have ever imagined. It truly was a labyrinth. Every day, I would go down to the basement and enter the depths through a hidden entrance I’d discovered completely on accident. And every day, he would be there waiting for me. I would give him food and anything else he needed – quills, parchment, books, candles, etc.

          “He learned how to navigate through the maze. It became his home – his playground. When he wasn’t exploring, he was studying – reading. He became a master at all he could – composing, singing, swordsmanship, writing, engineering, organizing, directing . . . everything, almost. He’s a genius, Castiel. He really, really is. He has a mind unlike any other. However . . . I fear that his genius may be turning to madness. He’s my brother and I love him, but . . . Some of the things he says -- the choices he makes . . . I have to wonder.

          “He’s so . . . angry. So violent. So ready to rip out the throat of anyone who opposes him – anyone who tests him. And he’s grown arrogant. He’s become . . .” Sam stopped and closed his eyes. “He’s becoming something dark, Castiel . . . something evil. I don’t know how to stop it – I don’t know if it can be stopped. But if anyone can change him – if anyone can keep him from doing something he’ll regret . . . from hurting someone else, it’s you.”

          Castiel listened to Monsieur Winchester’s tale in an uneasy silence. His heart hurt – it felt like it had shattered and the pieces had splintered into the sides of his chest. His poor Angel. He had no idea; he knew that life couldn’t have been easy for him, but he didn’t think that it was that bad. Some of the things he went through – some of the things he was forced to do . . .

          Sam seemed to think that Castiel would be afraid after hearing this tale. Castiel could tell by the look on Sam’s face that the choreographer was waiting to hear Castiel ask to get out of this, or maybe ask for help to get away. _I don’t need help,_ Castiel thought. _But my Angel does. He needs to be shown love and compassion . . . And that’s what I’ll do._

          “Sam,” Castiel said quietly.

          “If you want out of this – if you want to leave, I understand. I’ll help you in any way I can,” the older man informed quickly.

          “What’s his name?” the boy inquired, ignoring Sam’s words.

          The question took the choreographer by surprise. “What?”

          “His name,” Castiel repeated. “You never said your brother’s name in the story.”

          Sam looked down. “He . . . asked me not to tell anyone,” he confessed. “He . . . he likes his new personas. He likes being called Phantom and Ghost . . . and he especially likes being called Angel.”

          Castiel put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Please,” he whispered. “It’s me, Sam. It’s not like I’m going to use it to hurt him.”

          Monsieur Winchester sighed before he finally looked up at Castiel. He was originally going to refuse, but when he saw the earnestness and the compassion in the boys eyes, he knew he had to. There was no fear – no uncertainty – just . . . kindness and love. _Castiel, you may survive my brother yet._ Sam straightened up then, his confidence in the young singer restored. Someone had to save his brother, and Castiel Novak could very well be the only person on Earth that was willing to try.

          “Dean,” Sam whispered finally. “His name is Dean.”


	10. Poor Old Fools, They Make Me Laugh

          Meta Tronne had a big night ahead of him: his comeback. His mighty return to the stage. He had to admit, he’d been concerned there for a while, especially after he saw that they’d replaced him! But all seemed to be well again. Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller were practically on their knees before him, ready to sell themselves to him like a couple of cheap whores just to have him sing. Castiel Novak, the little nobody – the _dancer_ – had finally been put back in his place. Meg Master had seemed to at least begin to grasp that she was a patron and only there for money and nothing more. And yet, there was only one problem and it loomed over Meta Tronne’s head like a storm cloud.

          The opera singer wasn’t a superstitious man, nor was he a religious one. He didn’t believe in ghosts, or specters, or phantoms, or angels. But that didn’t dull or soothe the frantic heartbeat that echoed throughout his surprisingly empty chest.

          Be prepared for a great misfortune should you attempt to take his place.

          The message from the so-called “Opera Ghost” repeated itself over and over in the prima donna’s head like a mantra. He wasn’t blind, or stupid (usually). He knew a threat when he saw one. But still, how could he just submit to a man he’d never seen or heard? Not only that, but he was a man that might or even exist! Those notes could have been written by Meg Masters, or perhaps Monsieur Novak himself. In fact, that was the most likely answer. Castiel wrote them to get himself on stage – to steal Meta Tronne’s roles and his public!

          The older man got all flustered at the thought of Castiel. That foolish, disgusting, conniving, little boy really got under his skin.

          “Monsieur Tronne?” the door of the dressing room opened with a small creak. Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller entered. “You look very strapping, Monsieur,” Gabriel complemented.

          “Yes,” Zachariah agreed, trying his best to smile. Meta Tronne noticed long ago that smiling was a very difficult thing for Zachariah to accomplish. “Stunning.”

          Meta Tronne smiled, but waved them away. “Please – you two try to flatter me too much.” He walked over to where he kept his both of breath freshener. He always liked to use it during performances; it kept his voice soft. He sprayed some in his mouth before handing it to Gabriel. “Can you make sure this is kept backstage where I can easily get to it?” he more commanded than asked.

          Meta Tronne put on a smile. Ghost or no ghost, he was going to remind the city of Paris who the real star was.

 

\- - - -

 

          The opera house was full. It was as if all of Paris had shown up to see Meta Tronne’s return. Meg Masters stood in Box 5 looking down at the crowd before her. They were chatty that evening; a low hum of conversation reverberated off the walls nearly drowning out her own thoughts. She should have been happy -- the profit she would receive from tonight would be immense. Yet, she couldn’t shake the uneasiness.

          It felt as though she, Gabriel, Zachariah, and Meta Tronne were tempting Lucifer himself. They had laughed and sneered in the Devil’s face and would now pay the price for their insolence. All she could do know was how that their assumptions were correct -- hope that the Phantom of the Opera was just a fable. She tried to tell herself that he wasn’t real; she tried to convince herself that the notes came from Meta Tronne -- that he wrote them just to cause trouble. It was a viable option. From what she’d seen of the man, he seemed like the type to pull that kind of stunt.

          But how did he know about Castiel’s Angel of Music? she wondered.

          That was the only point she did not understand. If Meta Tronne had written those notes, how did he know that Castiel had supposedly been visited by an Angel?

          Meg had listened to her friend’s story politely and laughed it off afterwards. Castiel always had been naive -- so impressionable. She knew that angels weren’t real. And if they were, they certainly wouldn’t be wasting their time watching over a single human. She also couldn’t help but wonder if this entity that Castiel claimed was the Angel of Music was also the Opera Ghost. It made sense, but at the same time it confused her even more. If this creature was human -- and it seemed likely that it was -- where was he? Who was he? Did he live in the opera house? The idea of a man living in an opera house for years and going mostly unnoticed to the point where they thought he was a ghost was just . . . well, far-fetched. But if he wasn’t human, what was he?

          All these musings made her head hurt.

          “Meg!” Gabriel’s voice drifted in from outside the box.

          She sighed, but went to greet him. Just before she pulled the curtain back to let him in, she plastered a fake smile on her face. “I bet you’re pleased by tonight’s turnout,” she said, opening the curtain and motioning for him to enter.

          Gabriel stepped into the box looking pleased. “Oh yes. Zach and I couldn’t be happier. The show’s about to begin -- I can’t stay long,” he rushed along. He sounded a little nervous. “I just wanted to check on you -- make sure you were alright. You’re welcome to sit with Zachariah and me if you wish.”

          Meg shook her head slowly. “No, that’s fine, Gabriel. Thank you, though. I appreciate the concern.”

          “Are you sure?” he asked again. He then lowered his voice, as if he were afraid someone would hear him. “Do you really think it’s wise to stay?”

          She wasn’t sure how to answer that question, but she shrugged nonetheless. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to find out.”

          The orchestra roared to life then with the opera’s overture. Gabriel quickly bade her farewell before rushing off to his own box. Meg sat down and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and sent a prayer to anyone who was listening. God, angels . . . if you can hear me, please protect us. Protect us from this Phantom of the Opera.

 

\- - - -

 

          He knew that Castiel had been denied the role of the Count. He knew that Meta Tronne would sin, and he knew that it would not end well for him. The man’s career should have been over years ago. But no matter, he thought. It shall end tonight. Yes, he was prepared for that portion of the night, but he was not prepared to find the Masters girl -- the whore that was too interested in his Castiel for her own good -- sitting in his box. The sheer gall and nerve of that girl!

          He only discovered this after sabotaging Meta Tronne. The tired, old man was just too easy to trick. All he had to do was switch out that stupid breath freshener of his with something a little more irritating to the throat. After that was complete, he headed up to his box to watch the performance. He knew that once Meta Tronne’s voice failed him, Castiel would play the Count -- he was the only one truly capable of singing the part, after all. However, when he got to his box, he found that girl sitting there!

          This, of course, threw him into a rage. It was bad enough they refused his request to make Castiel the lead, but to deliberately ignore such a simple request was a real slap in the face.

          Sam had spoken to him the night before the show -- begged him to reconsider. He had listened to his younger brother’s pleas and decided to be merciful. It was Sam; how could he say no to the only human that never gave up on him? So, he intended to hold back -- punish Meta Tronne and let the owners and Mademoiselle Masters go free. But after seeing Meg in his box . . .

          He ascended high into the auditorium; climbed a long staircase hidden from the public eye. He emerged onto a small wooden ledge that stretched around the circular top of the theater. He came out right at the height of the large, magnificent chandelier that was suspended above the heads of every innocent bystander in the crowd below. The ledge itself was mostly used for maintenance, but it served the Phantom well enough. He smiled to himself as he walked along the ledge closer to the stage. At least this was going to be entertaining.

 

\- - - -

 

          “Just go out and do your part,” Sam had said. “Dean will not harm you. Just . . . go out there and do your best. If anything happens and it looks like something truly horrible is about to unfold, just get out of there.”

          Castiel had nodded as Sam said this. He knew that Dean -- his Angel -- wouldn’t hurt him. He tried to be confident in this – tried to believe it, but as he stood backstage, waiting to go on, he could hardly breathe. He was afraid; afraid of what waited for him once he got out there. Even though he knew that Dean was not going to hurt him, the idea of being out there, exposed and vulnerable, was unnerving. Anything could happen. If Castiel could have gone out there and sang, it would have been much better. Singing always calmed him -- brought him joy and peace. But this time, his role was silent. All he could do was smile and pretend to laugh.

          A hand touched Castiel’s shoulder, making him nearly jump out of his skin. Consequently, he stumbled over his own feet. Balthazar rushed to steady him. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” he apologized, making sure Castiel was stable again before letting go. “I just wanted to wish you luck.”

          Castiel smiled weakly. Balthazar might have been a womanizer and a bit of a jerk sometimes, but he was a good and loyal friend. “Thanks,” he murmured. He wanted to sound happier – truly grateful – but he couldn’t. He felt sick to his stomach.

          The overture began. Castiel’s heart hammered in his chest. He and Balthazar exchanged a quick glance before the dancer disappeared to go back to his own place. Castiel watched as Meta Tronne, Raphael and another man stepped out on stage. Meta Tronne was standing in the center, admiring himself in a mirror. He wore the fine clothes of a Count and looked more appealing than usual (which wasn’t saying much). Raphael stood slightly off to the side, dressed in good clothes as well. He looked prim and proper, as was fitting his role – the Count’s younger brother. Raphael’s character thought that the Count was having an affair with the Pageboy that visited the manor every day, which was pretty much the premise of the opera.

          The third man was someone Castiel knew but seldom talked to. He was a singer in the chorus – someone they brought up when they needed someone to sing a minor solo. His name was Kevin Tran, and from what Castiel knew of him he was a decent boy. He was younger than Castiel by a few years and a very good singer – better than Meta Tronne even. He graced the stage with a confidence that Castiel wished he possessed. As the overture ended, he looked back and forth between Meta Tronne and Raphael before addressing the audience in song.

 

“ _They say a youth has set my Lord’s heart aflame!_

_His brother will surely die of shock,_

_His brother is a laughing stock!_

_Should he suspect him, God protect him!_

_Shame! Shame! Shame!_ ”

 

          Castiel walked out onto stage then. He was dressed in street clothes – an open-chested white shirt and a pair of dirty brown pants. He held a blank, folded note in his hand as he approached Meta Tronne. He did all he could to not look at the audience. He knew that Dean was out there somewhere, watching him. It brought him a strange comfort now that he was actually on stage. It gave him some reassurance that Dean was actually watching him – keeping an eye on him.

          “Serafino!” Meta Tronne explained as Castiel neared. He took the dark-haired boy by the arm and pulled him closer. “Your clothes are perfect! They really make you look like a homeless stable boy!” Meta Tronne smiled as he spoke, but there was a coldness in his eyes – an unspoken warning that was directed at Castiel. Raphael approached them then and Meta Tronne quickly dropped Castiel’s arm. “Hello, brother,” Meta Tronne greeted.

          “Dear Count,” Raphael said softly. He delivered the rest of his lines in song.

 

“ _Admit your loving, gentle brother._

_I am called to England on affairs of State,_

_And must leave you with your new servant._ ”

 

          Raphael motioned to Kevin before winking at the audience. “Although I’d happily take him with me!”

          The crowd roared with laughter as Kevin’s mouth fell open. He stared at Raphael with mock disgust before stalking off stage in a huff. Meta Tronne playfully rolled his eyes. He cupped one hand so that Raphael could not see his mouth as he spoke to the audience. “The old fool is leaving!”

          Raphael waved a dismissive hand at Meta Tronne as the crowd laughed again. He turn turned to them and began to speak. “I think that my dear brother is . . . being intimate with that Pageboy! He comes here every single day and stays longer than he should! My brother thinks I leave for England, instead I shall hide just out of sight and observe!” He turned back to Meta Tronne then. “Adieu! Adieu! Adieu!” With that, Raphael exited the stage.

          Meta Tronne then pulled Castiel downstage closer to the crowd. “Serafino, away with this pretense!” he declared, taking the blank note from the boy’s hands and promptly ripping it to pieces. “You cannot speak, but kiss me in my husband’s absence!”

          Castiel obliged, leaning in very close to the older man’s cheek to give the illusion of kissing. As he pulled away, Meta Tronne began to sing.

 

“ _Poor old fool, he makes me laugh,_

_Ha ha ha ha ha!_

_Time I tried to get a better half!_

_Poor old fool, he doesn’t now,_

_Ho ho ho ho!_

_If he knew the truth, he’d never, ever go!_ ”

 

          Castiel took Meta Tronne’s hand and spun the Count around. Meta Tronne opened his mouth to start a new verse when he was silenced by a furious voice. “DID I NOT INSTRUCT THAT BOX 5 WAS TO BE KEPT EMPTY?!”

          Castiel and Meta Tronne froze on stage. Castiel felt his chest tighten. He knew that voice probably better than anyone: Dean. He looked around the auditorium instinctively, searching for his Angel. He knew that it was a futile effort, but he couldn’t stop himself. “It’s him,” he whispered. “He’s here.”

          Meta Tronne rounded on him, livid. “Your part is _silent,_ you little toad!”

          “A toad Monsieur?” Dean’s voice queried so all could hear. “You dare call him a toad?” He laughed then. It wasn’t a joyful laugh, but a sinister one. It sent shivers up Castiel’s spine. “Perhaps, Monsieur Tronne, it is _you_ who are the toad!”

          Meta Tronne’s mouth fell open at the brazen insult. He stalked to the side of the stage. Castiel had been sure that the diva was going to go back to his dressing room and pout until Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller offered to buy him the moon. But to his surprise, Meta Tronne paused at the side of the stage. He picked up a glass bottle with a strange liquid inside. Castiel watched in unguarded confusion as Meta Tronne squirted some in his mouth before returning to center stage. He cleared his throat once before smiling at the audience. “Monsieur Crowley,” he addressed the maestro. “Let’s keep going! The show _must_ go on!”

          The audience applauded at this and the music began again. Meta Tronne pretended to take the note from Castiel’s hands again.

 

“ _Serafino, away with this pretense!_

 _You cannot speak, but kiss me in my—_ ”

 

          Meta Tronne’s voice was abruptly cut off by a loud, unpleasant croak. At first, Castiel thought that his angel was playing with the performers, but then he realized that it had come from Meta Tronne’s own mouth. The star stood there, his face thirty shades of red. He cracked a nervous smile and cleared his throat.

          Castiel swore he heard maniacal laughter from high above his head.

          Meta Tronne motioned for the maestro to keep the orchestra playing. He sang again, his voice trembling slightly in trepidation.

 

“ _Poor old fool he makes me laugh,_

 _Ha ha ha ha—_ ”

 

          His voice was again replaced by the sharp croak. Meta Tronne began to look very distressed. He tried to sing a single note, but the rough, hoarse growl was all that sounded. Now he was panicking, clutching his throat with one hand. Castiel put his hand on the older man’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. Meta Tronne seemed to be having some kind of breakdown; tears were running down his cheeks as he struggled to make a normal sound – any sound whether it was singing or just speaking. Castiel could just watch in horror.

          _Angel . . . what have you done?_

          Finally, Meta Tronne went dead silent and rushed off stage. Castiel stood alone, looking out at the laughing audience like a deer in bright light. They chortled and seemed to enjoy Meta Tronne’s dilemma. What happened next was like a blur to him. One minute, he was alone on stage, and the next, Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller were beside him. They were speaking to the audience; Castiel could see their mouths moving but couldn’t hear them. Then, he heard his name, and it seemed to snap him out of his daze. “. . . Castiel Novak. In the meantime, ladies and gentleman, allow us to present to you the ballet from Act 3 of tonight’s opera. Maestro,” Gabriel said, looking down at Crowley in the pit before the stage. “The ballet. _Now._ ” Gabriel sounded like he was on the verge of panic himself.

          Castiel’s eyes traveled down to where Crowley was angrily muttering to himself and giving the owners obscene gestures. And then, Castiel was being pulled off the stage by Zachariah. Once out of the audience’s view, the older man flung Castiel toward the waiting Monsieur Winchester. “Get him into costume!” he hissed at the choreographer. “Quickly!”

          Sam didn’t waste any time. Castiel couldn’t even comprehend what was going on as Sam drug him through the madhouse backstage. He briefly saw Balthazar and the other dancers sprinting past him to get on stage for the ballet. People dove and ducked out of Sam’s way knowing that if they didn’t, they’d feel the wrath of his cane. With that useful advantage, they got to Castiel’s dressing room rather easily.

          “Take off those clothes,” Sam instructed as he shut the door behind them. He rushed over to a clothing rack and began to search through for something that a Count would wear.

          Meanwhile, Castiel tried to obey. His hand tried to undo the buttons on his shirt, but they shook violently.

          Sam noticed after a few moments and abandoned the clothes. He walked over to the boy and grasped his hands in his. “Calm yourself, he ordered, but his voice was soft – reassuring. “Take a deep breath and pull yourself together. You need to go out there and sing, understand? That’s the only way Dean is going to be appeased.”

          Castiel managed a nod and stripped off most of his clothes with Sam’s help. As Sam went to retrieve the Count’s clothes, Castiel noticed something on the vanity a few feet away. He started toward it, ignoring Sam’s burning eyes. Sam opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but abruptly closed it when he saw the cause.

          A red rose lay on the vanity with a black ribbon tied around the stem. Castiel picked it up and stared at it, his entire body trembling.

          That was when they heard the scream.


	11. All I Ask of You

          Castiel and Sam sprinted out of the dressing room. Sam led the way as they rushed back to the stage. Castiel ran along behind him, Dean’s rose still clutched in his hand. His heart was pounding – his blood pulsing wildly through his body in fear. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. He couldn’t imagine what had caused the screams that were still coming from the auditorium. They rang in his ears and made his blood chill. _Don’t let it be Dean,_ he thought half in concern for his Angel and half in terror of his actions.

          Sam reached the stage first. He saw the cause and tried to keep Castiel away from it. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders and tried to shove him away from what only could be described as a grisly sight. But Castiel held his ground and shoved past the choreographer. He pushed his way through the crowd until he was at last at the front.

          Benny Lafitte, the stage manager and the man that had been harassing Jessica, was lying limp center stage with a rope noose around his neck.

          “It was _him_!” someone shouted. “The Phantom of the Opera!”

          “Murderer!”

          “Find him!”

          “No one can find him! He’s a ghost!”

          “Don’t panic!” Zachariah’s voice rose above the rest. “People, stay in your seats! Please! It was an accident! Simply an accident!”

          Castiel could just stare at the corpse. Benny’s pale blue eyes were open wide, and his hands still fastened around the rope that had strangled him. This man was dead – dead at his Angel’s hands. Castiel had known that Dean would fight back against Meta Tronne and the owners, but he never thought that he would _kill._

          _He had to,_ Castiel tried to tell himself. _He had no choice . . . He had no choice._

          But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself it was true, he couldn’t. Dean didn’t have to kill this man, so why had he? Had he really killed an innocent man to prove a point? Or had he killed him for the pure joy of killing? Castiel’s mind drifted back to his dream – how the Phantom had treated him, how he had abused him, and how he was more devil than angel. Castiel remembered wondering how two beings so different – on opposite ends of the spectrum – could both be in one man. _He is a demon – a phantom,_ Castiel thought. _I know I promised Sam that I would try but . . . how can I possibly love a man that murders innocents? How can I love someone who threatens people? How can I love a . . . monster?_

          The moment the thought crossed his mind, he became both ashamed and afraid. He was afraid, and he was ashamed of it. He was ashamed of the fear that he was allowing to poison his thoughts and his feelings for his Angel of Music. The face and the monstrous appearance he could have overcome – he _had_ overcame it – but this darkness . . . The hatred that seemed to be in his heart and the all of the anger – it frightened Castiel.

          _What have I gotten myself into?_

          He got the overpowering urge to leave. He had to go – get out of there. It felt as if the walls were closing in around him, threatening to suffocate him. He saw an image of the Phantom that had haunted his dreams. Phantom Dean smirked devilishly, his white teeth flashing in the darkness. Phantom Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel and pulled him close until their faces were less than an inch apart. “You belong to me,” he told him in a growly whisper. “You will sing for me.” And then, Phantom Dean’s eyes flashed black. His irises and the whites of his eyes were blotted out until they were completely obsidian.

          Castiel physically jerked backward as if this twisted dream was real. Overwhelmed with fear, Castiel ran. He pushed through the crowd, ignoring the sharp curses and exclamations as he slammed into their bodies. He pushed and shoved and clawed and did everything he knew how to get through the crowd. He had to get out of there – he had to escape the Phantom of the Opera.

          “Castiel!” Meg’s voice sounded somewhere far behind him. It was faint, but he could hear her shouting his name. “Castiel, wait!”

          _No, don’t come after me,_ he thought pleadingly. _If he sees you, he’ll go after you too._ For all Castiel knew, Dean was already making plans to eliminate Meg. _I can’t let that happen. She’s my best friend! She’s all I have left of home and of my father!_ He skidded to a halt – the momentum he had making it difficult to stop with grace. He waited for her as she struggled to work her way through the throng of concerned and panicked actors and dancers.

          When she finally reached him, Meg grasped his hand. “Castiel, what is going on? What’s happening? Why were you running? Are you alright?” The genuine concern in her voice warmed his heart. It was good to know that even after all these years she still cared for him.

          “Meg, we aren’t safe here,” was all he offered in response. He dragged her after him as he headed toward the spiral staircase that led to the second floor of the opera house.

          “What?” she asked, scrambling to keep up with him and not trip over the skirt of her dress. “Why?”

          “I’ll explain later,” he said sharply as they ran up the stairs.  

          “Where are we going?”

          “To the roof! We’ll be safe there!”

 

\- - - -

 

          Castiel threw open the door, chilly autumn air slapping him in the face. Meg’s long hair began to billow around her head and her face flushed. Castiel finally let go of Meg’s arm and practically stumbled out onto the roof. His legs ached from climbing so many stairs and his heart was pumping so quickly he thought he just might fall over and die. He walked to the edge of the roof and looked at the ground far below him. People were filing out of the opera house like crazy and climbing into carriages. Castiel watched them, his chest heaving as he fought the cold air for breath. He still held the rose Dean had given him. He held it so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. He felt sick. The show was over – Dean had succeeded in ruining it.

          After about a minute of silence, Castiel heard Meg’s heels on the stone as she stalked up behind him. “Why have you brought me here?” she demanded, grabbing his bicep. She gently began to pull him back in the direction of the door.

          He jerked his arm away. “Don’t take me back there!”

          She gave him an exhausted look. “Castiel, we must return.”

          “He’ll kill you!” he replied. His lips began to tremble slightly; he couldn’t lose Meg. She was all he had of his father now. Castiel did the only thing that he knew would calm him: sing.

 

“ _His eyes will find us there!_ ”

 

          Meg stared at him, distraught. “Clarence, don’t say that!”

 

“ _Those eyes that burn._ ”

 

          “Don’t even think it!”

 

“ _And if he has to kill a thousand men!_ ”

 

          “For God’s sake! Forget this nightmare!”

 

“ _The Phantom of the Opera will kill,_ ”

 

          “Is a fable! Believe me!”

 

“ _. . . and kill again!_ ”

 

          “There is no Phantom of the Opera!”

 

“ _My God who is this man . . ._ ”

 

“My God, who is this man . . .”

 

“ _. . . Who hunts to kill?_ ”

 

“. . .This mask of death?

 

“ _I can’t escape from him . . ._ ”

 

“Whose is this voice you hear . . .”

 

“ _. . . I never will._ ”

 

“ . . . With every breath?”

 

“ _And in this labyrinth_

_Where light is blind,_

_The Phantom of the Opera_

_Is here inside my mind._ ”

 

          Meg grabbed him by the arm so forcefully that he had no choice but to look at her. She shook him once. “Castiel Novak!” she shouted at him. “Listen to me: there is no Phantom of the Opera! He’s just a figment of your imagination – something you made up after your father died to make you feel better! Angels and Phantoms don’t exist!”

          “Then who did all that?” Castiel demanded. “Who sabotaged Meta Tronne? Who was that speaking with a voice like thunder? Who killed that man?”

          “A _man_ , Castiel,” Meg said. “A crazy, psychotic man.”

          “Then you acknowledge he exists?”

          “He is not who you think he is! He doesn’t have any supernatural power. He can’t control you or make you do anything! He is _using you_ , Castiel – using you to hurt the opera house. He’s playing games with you. The Phantom of the Opera isn’t real. The Angel of Music isn’t real! It’s just some guy dressed up pretending to be something he’s not!”

          Castiel shook his head. She didn’t understand. She hadn’t been there to his home. She hadn’t heard him sing. She didn’t look upon his face. She didn’t feel the fear he felt. She didn’t understand the danger they were all in. He took a deep breath as his body began to shake again. He sang softly, almost in a whisper.

 

“ _Meg, I’ve been there . . ._

_To his world of unending night . . ._

_To a world where daylight dissolves into darkness._

_Meg, I’ve seen him!_

_Can I ever forget that sight?_

_Can I ever escape from that face?_

_So distorted, deformed, it was hardly a face_

_In that darkness . . ._ ”

 

          He paused then. His mind was focused on all the bad things Dean had done – on the death and the evil and the distortion on his face. _But . . . he still gave me my voice . . . He still gave me love and brought something . . . new and wondrous into my life._ He looked down at the rose in his hands. Momentarily, all the fear and all the pain in his heart left him. He sang again, this time with a softness in his voice.

 

“ _But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound._

_In that night, there was music in my mind._

_And through his music, my soul began to soar._

_And I heard as I’ve never heard before._ ”

 

          Meg looked more annoyed and confused than anything. She stared at Castiel, her eyebrows knitted together; she was desperate to make him understand and see as she did. “Castiel,” she murmured softly. “What you heard was a dream and nothing more.”

          Castiel ignored her. Memories of his duet with the Phantom and the passion they shared came flooding back to him. He remembered how Dean had practically worshipped his body. He remembered their kisses and their touches . . . He remembered Dean smiling at him and being awkward after their lovemaking. How could such a man – such a marvelous human being – be evil? How could he be the one that killed Benny Lafitte? How could he have threatened Meta Tronne and Meg?

          _They ignored him,_ Castiel thought. _They laughed at his face . . . How many people have done that? How many have mocked him?_ He thought back to the story Sam had told him. Dean had every right to be angry. He had every right to hate humanity for the way they treated him.

          Castiel ran his thumb along the rose’s soft, crimson petals.

 

“ _Yet in his eyes . . ._

_Was all the sadness of the world._

_Those pleading eyes . . ._

_That both threaten . . ._

_And adore._ ”

 

          “Castiel,” Meg sighed in resignation. She turned away from him, her hands on the side of her head in frustration. “Castiel,” she groaned.

          “ _Castiel._ ”

          It was almost as if the wind had whispered his name. Castiel jumped and began to look around wildly. He swore it sounded like . . .

          Meg noticed his distress. She sighed once more but approached him. Castiel stared at her as she took his large hands in hers. He had to admit: she’d changed a lot since they were children. She had matured into a very beautiful woman; Castiel only just seemed to realize this now. Her chocolate-colored locks perfectly framed her round face. Her nice, warm eyes stared up at him through thick lashes. Her cheeks were an attractive rosy color, and her lips were red like blood. Castiel hadn’t felt like this about a woman before – he felt like he did when he and Dean were . . .

          She gently pried the rose from his grip and tossed it on the roof somewhere beyond Castiel’s line of sight. One hand reached up to cup his face. “No more talk of darkness,” she ordered. “Forget these wide-eyed fears. I’m here, Castiel – I’m here, nothing will harm you. Let my words warm, and calm you.” Her eyes were pleading with him to believe her – begging him.

          Castiel pulled back a little, surprised by her actions. This was Meg – he’d known her since they were children but . . .

          “Let me be your freedom,” she murmured. “Let daylight kill your fears. I’m here with you, beside you – to guard you and guide you.”

          He stared at her – Meg, the last tie to his past, his childhood, and his father. She represented all things good in his life – light, happiness, innocence, simplicity. He suddenly felt the need to be with her – to have her beside him for the rest of his days. She was not his Angel of Music, but she was still . . . important. She still meant a lot to him. He didn’t want to lose her – lose that tie to his past and the happiness he once knew.

          “Meg,” he breathed. He had to make her stay. He couldn’t lose her. He began to sing, hoping that his voice would persuade her.

 

“ _Say you’ll love me every waking moment._

_Turn my head with talk of summertime._

_Say you need me with you now and always._

_Promise me that all you say is true._

_Meg, that’s all I ask of you._ ”

 

          She smiled widely at his song. Castiel swore he saw her eyes glisten with tears. She put her hands on his shoulders and took a deep breath. To his immense surprise, she met his gaze and began to sing.

 

“ _Let me be your shelter._

_Let me be your light._

_You’re safe – no one will find you._

_Your fears are far behind you._ ”

 

          Her voice was lower – a tenor – but it was soft like velvet and sweet like honey. Castiel couldn’t help but smile. They would make beautiful music together, even if she wasn’t an angel. He gently pulled out of her grip and looked around at the glittering lights of Paris. It seemed as if the majority of his life had been spent living in this opera house with the Angel of Music singing songs in his head. Not too long ago, he would have been content with that life. But no longer. Meg was here – she gave him a taste of something else. It was something wild, exotic, and it was just the beginning. What else was out there? What was waiting to be discovered. He felt Meg’s hand wrap around his and smiled.

 

“ _All I want is freedom,_

_A world with no more night._

_And you,_ ”

 

          He turned to look at her. Instinctively, his hand caressed her face. He didn’t have to worry about a mask, or her getting angry at him. He didn’t even have to think about that.

 

“ _Always beside me,_

 _To hold me and to hide me._ ”

 

          Meg led him away from the edge of the roof and spun them around once, her hair and dress billowing around her as she did so. She looked so happy . . . so beautiful. When she sang again, Castiel was struck breathless by her perfection.

 

“ _Then say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime._

_Let me lead you from your solitude._

_Say you need me with you here, beside you._

_Anywhere you go, let me go too._

_Castiel, that’s all I ask of you._ ”

 

          Castiel was too amazed by her to even sing. He wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close to him. Their bodies were pressed so tightly together, Castiel swore he felt her heart pounding. “Say the word, and I will follow you,” he whispered in her ear. With Dean, Castiel had been under his control. Dean was the one who did the holding and the whispering and all the typical “male” actions. But now, it was Castiel’s turn. It felt strangely empowering.

          Meg looked up at him, no longer smiling. Her lips were slightly parted and her eyes were glazed. “Share each day with me,” she whispered. “Each night and each morning.”

          His head leaned down closer to hers. “Say you love me.”

          Meg’s arms wrapped around his neck; her fingers tangled in his hair. “You know I do.”

          They looked into each other’s eyes and said in unison: “Love me. That’s all I ask of you.”

          Their lips met, and a fire erupted inside Castiel. He picked her up and spun them both around, earning a giggle from his lover. When he set her back down, their lips were still locked together. She was gently tugging on his hair, sending glorious sensations pulsing throughout his body. This kiss – these feelings – were so different than the ones he’d shared with Dean. They were so soft and full of love and trust and patience and understanding. It was nice and . . . soothing. His kiss with Dean had been so wild, so passionate, so erotic. It was hungry as if they couldn’t get enough of each other.

          When they finally pulled away, Castiel smiled and took her hand. He started to walk back toward the door that led back into the opera house. “I must go,” he said. “They’ll wonder where I am. Wait for me?”

          She smiled back and nodded. “Castiel . . . I love you.”

          Castiel paused and kissed her lips once more. When they broke apart again, he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Order your fine horses and be with them at the door,” he said softly.

          “And soon, you’ll be beside me?” she more asked than stated. It seemed almost as if she was hesitant to let him go.

          He nodded. “You’ll guard me and you’ll guide me.”

          They left the roof then, blissfully in love and completely unaware of the Phantom that had been lurking in the shadows, just out of sight and listening to every word.

 

\- - - -

 

          He stepped out of hiding. The rose he’d given to his Angel – the rose he gave to him as a good luck charm – was lying alone and discarded on the roof. His body felt numb as he walked over to retrieve it. Dean Winchester had felt pain. He had felt more than enough of that for ten lifetimes, but all of that suffering he’d experienced seemed miniscule compared to what he was going through at that moment.

          Dean tried to kneel down but ended up pretty much collapsing in a crying mess. He picked up the rose and held it close to his chest. “He doesn’t love me,” he kept repeating. “He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t love me. How could . . . ? He couldn’t love me.” He looked down at the rose once more. His entire body was shaking with sobs. Dean did the only thing he knew how – the only thing that ever made him feel like he was worth _something_ ; he sang.

 

“ _I gave you my music . . ._

_Made your song take wing._

_And now, how you’ve betrayed me . . ._

_Denied me and repaid me._ ”

 

          He sucked in sharp breath; he couldn’t see anymore. Tears blurred his vision. Dean gripped the rose tighter until he lost feeling in his fingers. He silently cursed the girl – the little _slut_ that took his Castiel from him. _She will pay,_ he vowed. But he couldn’t even focus on getting revenge on her – it was a fleeting thought. His mind was too preoccupied with his beloved Castiel . . . The next part of the melody came out even more strangled and off-pitch than the first.

“ _She was bound to love you_

_When she heard you sing._

_Castiel . . ._ ”

 

          Dean let out another sob so loud he swore the people down on the street below could hear him. “Castiel,” he whimpered. He continued to sob – there was nothing else he _could_ do. His voice was gone. His _life_ was gone – over. Castiel didn’t love him, he loved that _girl_. Dean had opened up to him – told him the truth, asked him for his love, and Castiel had slapped him in the face. He shook his head in despair; he could still hear them singing their annoying little song in his head.

 

“ _Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime._

_Say the word and I will follow you._

_Share each day with me, each night, each morning . . ._ ”

 

          He couldn’t take it. He had lost his Castiel – his Angel of Music. His agony then turned to white hot rage. Why did this always have to happen? Why did everyone he love have to reject him? Why did the world have to hate him? What did he _do_ to deserve this kind of life?!

          With a growl, he snapped the rose’s stem in half. His nostrils flaring and his breaths shaking in anger, he ripped and crumpled the petals – stripping them from the flower. When the rose was completely destroyed, he got to his feet and strode to the edge of the roof.

          Dean glowered down at the people below him. He let out a lion-worthy roar into the night. It came from deep inside – it was a cry that had been building up inside him for years. It was a cry of pain, a cry of anguish, a cry of pure rage. He was done letting the world shove him aside. He was tired of taking _that_ kind of treatment from people.

          It was time he started to fight back.

          With his lips curling into a snarl, Dean shouted into the night a message for Castiel and Castiel alone.

 

“ _YOU WILL CURSE THE DAY YOU DID NOT DO_

 _ALL THAT THE PHANTOM ASKED OF YOU!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this was BY FAR the hardest chapter to write. The only one that might be worse is the final chapter. When I was writing Dean's little part at the end, I was actually crying as I wrote it. I hate seeing my babies in pain.
> 
> Oh, and by the way, I would like to thank all of you for the AMAZING support this story has gotten! I just want to say that it is greatly appreciated! I love every comment and every like! I love getting those little notifications -- it warms my heart.
> 
> So thank you all so much. You have no idea how much it means to me!


	12. Masquerade

**Three Months Later**

 

* * *

 

 

          Two men stood on the steps of a large opera house in Paris. Fireworks boomed overhead, their wild and spectacular colors shooting across the sky in a beautiful array of light. Photographers stood at the base of the stairs snapping pictures of the two men. They remained in that way for several minutes, basking in the attention. Far above their heads, the plethora of light and sound blocked out everything else. Of course, the fireworks were not actually a part of the party arranged by the two men on the steps, but they were more than ready to pretend they were.

          It was a splendid night for a party though. The beginning of a new year, and a new season of opera performances. Both of the owners of the Opera Populaire had chosen this night because they knew it would get a buzz going. People who might not have been interested in visiting or seeing the opera house before might now have their interest peaked.

          “That’s enough, gentlemen!” Monsieur Fuller shouted over the clicking and flashing of the cameras at last. Monsieur Speight was relieved; he let his smile fall and massaged his face. He couldn’t recall a time he’d smiled for that long.

          As the photographers turned away, the owners ascended the last few steps toward the doors of the opera house. “Dear Speight, what a splendid party,” Monsieur Fuller complemented. For the first time in, well, _forever_ , Zachariah praised Gabriel without any trace of sarcasm.

          Gabriel smiled at the complement. “Well, party planning is what I do best! Besides, we had to celebrate that new chandelier somehow!”

          Zachariah nodded in agreement. “That thing _really_ _is_ impressive, but was it necessary?”

          Gabriel looked honestly insulted. “Of course it was!”

          His partner chuckled and decided to let the topic of material things rest for the time being. “It’s a wonderful prelude to a bright new year for us!”

          As the servants swung open the doors to expose the lavish party going on in the front hall, Zachariah got a strange feeling. He stepped inside with Gabriel at his side, but let out a small laugh. “You know, Gabriel,” he said softly. “It’s almost a shame that Phantom fellow isn’t here.”

          Gabriel looked at him out of the corner of his eye. The move was subtle and relatively controlled, but Zachariah noted the fear in his friend’s eyes. Gabriel suddenly stiffened and got very nervous. “Don’t say such things, Zach,” he scolded. “You’re throwing my mood off with talk of such awful things.”

          “You’re right,” Zachariah sighed, looking around at the dancing bodies. “Tonight is not a night to talk of such things! It is New Year’s Eve, after all.”

          “Yes, and we haven’t heard from that _ghost_ for almost three months now! I don’t want tonight to be the night he decides to return to his usual doings,” Gabriel muttered bad temperedly.

          With such talk, both owners began to get a rather uneasy feeling as if they were being watched from the shadows . . . And they were.

 

\- - - -

 

“ _Masquerade!_

_Paper faces on parade_

_Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

_Masquerade!_

_Every face a different shade_

_Masquerade!_

_Look around, there's another mask behind you!_ ”

 

          The voices of the chorus members echoed throughout the extravagantly decorated hall. Castiel stood by one of the large porcelain pillars that were spread throughout the hall. He was dressed in a simple black suit and wore a black mask to cover his face. The mask he was grateful for – it gave him some idea of security in this place.

          He hadn’t wanted to go to this stupid ball, but Meg had forced him into it. “You’ll have fun,” she said. “You haven’t set foot in that opera house since the night on the roof.” There was a _reason_ for that. He didn’t _want_ to go back there. He didn’t _want_ to be reminded of the Angel that persisted to haunt his every waking moment. No matter where he went, he couldn’t get Dean Winchester out his head. He couldn’t escape. Not when he was living in Meg’s house. Not when he was lying in Meg’s bed. Not when he was making love with her. _He_ was always there like a hallucination. He was just standing there, watching Castiel with a taunting smirk. _You let me into your mind,_ he seemed to say. _You welcomed me, and here I will stay._

          The past three months have been nothing short of hell, but he would never tell Meg that. A lot had changed since their night on the roof top. He loved her, in a way, but he found her to be overbearing . . . almost controlling. She picked out his outfit, decided what he would do every day – she took away his own free will to an extent. At first, Castiel had been grateful for this. He was happy that someone else got to make the decisions. He was glad to be able to _relax_. But that feeling quickly faded. He knew that Meg was just trying to help – just trying to keep him from relapsing into what she referred to as insanity but he referred to as love – love for the Phantom.

          Castiel was beginning to dread her presence.

          And the fact that she made him attend this god-forsaken ball did not help matters. How stupid were the owners? How foolish? And honestly, how did Sam let this happen? Having a _masquerade ball_ of all things was practically sending _him_ an open invitation! Castiel knew he would come – he would make some kind of appearance tonight. There was no way he wouldn’t.

          Since he had left the opera house with Meg three months ago, he had spoken with no one. He hadn’t written Sam or Balthazar, nor had he made any attempt to keep contact with them. He wanted the past to die and be buried. He wanted to escape the Angel that held him captive. _You will never escape,_ the Angel’s voice sneered in his head. _And let’s be honest with ourselves, Castiel. You don’t really_ want _to escape me either_.

          A loud hoot got Castiel’s attention, breaking him from his chain of unhappy thoughts. Pleased to now have a distraction, he headed toward the sound and found himself at the door that led to backstage. Castiel felt a strange longing overcome him as he peered into the small window in the door. He saw his old friends – the male dancers, the ballerinas, the stage crew – they were all laughing and having a good time. They passed around numerous bottles of wine and drank straight from the bottle itself. They laughed, and danced, and made merry, and Castiel wanted to be with them.

          _They were always fun to party with,_ Castiel thought back fondly. Not that he had ever really celebrated with them. When he did, he would just stand in a corner or sit at a table and watched with an amused smile as Balthazar would flirt with the ballet rats and Ezekiel and Alfie would have a hilarious dance off to a poorly played fiddle. It was crude, wild, and unorganized, but certainly one of the happiest things Castiel had ever been a part of.

          He wanted to go back there and spend a few minutes with them . . . maybe find Balthazar and explain everything. For a moment, Castiel wished he was just a dancer again. He wished that he was a normal young man who hadn’t been noticed by Meg Masters or Dean Winchester. He wished that he was like Balthazar and his friends. He wished he could be free from Dean’s chains and Meg’s suffocating hold. He just wanted to be free and be _himself_ for once instead of Dean’s Castiel or Meg’s Castiel.

          With a deep breath, he put his hand on the door handle. Just as he was about to turn it, he heard the voice that had been grating on his nerves for weeks. “Castiel?” Meg came up behind him.

          He sighed in defeat and let go of the handle. “Yes, dear?”

          She took his hand and gently led him back toward the thick of the crowd. “What were you doing?” she asked. Her voice sounded gentle enough, but there was an unspoken warning there as well.

          “I was just going to see if I could find Balthazar,” he explained simply. “He’s a friend of mine from my dancing days.” Castiel tried to keep his voice light.

          Meg moved her hands so she was now holding on to his bicep. “Oh, well . . . You can find him later, right?” she asked. “I just . . . I would hate for you to have to back there with those . . . _people._ ”

          His eyes narrowed into slits. “What do you mean by that, Meg?”

          “Nothing,” she said quickly in defense. “I was just—”

          “I used to be one of those _people_ too, Meg! Don’t forget that!” The moment the words passed his lips, Castiel felt guilty. He heard the venom in his own voice and it shocked him. He stared at Meg’s wide eyes and her tortured expression and felt like a complete jackass. “Meg,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I just . . . I’m really stressed out, okay?”

          She studied him for a moment, appraising his excuse before nodding. “Okay . . . I’m sorry too. I should be respectful of your friends, and where you came from.”

          Castiel couldn’t help but smile. Whenever Meg got on his nerves or made him angry, she always seemed to find a way to worm her way back into his heart.

 

\- - - -

 

          Sam was livid when he saw Castiel and Meg walking hand in hand as if nothing had happened. As if nothing had changed. It was all he could to not storm over there and beat the living crap out of that _boy_. Dean had given up everything – put everything into winning Castiel’s love – and the boy had turned around and betrayed him like that? Castiel had promised him that he would try to love Dean – to see past the deformity and love him for he truly was. He said he’d try, and then . . . He ran off – fled.

          With a shudder, he remembered his brother’s rage. He remembered Dean’s fits -- how he practically destroyed half of his home out of rage and agony. “HE DOESN’T LOVE ME, SAMMY!” he kept screaming at the top of his lungs. “HE DOESN’T LOVE ME! WHO COULD EVER LOVE A MONSTER LIKE ME?!”

          Sam had done all he could to calm his brother down. He talked to him, tried to soothe him . . . But there was no force on this earth that could heal Dean Winchester’s pain. It cut too deep. It hurt too much. The only thing – the only person – that might be able to save Dean from himself and from the monster that lurked inside him was Castiel. And Castiel had given up on him.

          In a way, Sam couldn’t blame him. Dean was terrifying. It took a special kind of person to be able to love someone like Dean. His brother was . . . Hell, possessive didn’t even seem like a strong enough word. When people like Dean fell in love, they fell hard. They put everything they had into their love and if it was denied or unrequited, it hurt them in ways most can’t even imagine. Dean was demanding – he wanted everything Castiel had and he wanted it to be his and his alone. He didn’t want there to even be a chance that Castiel might love another. His jealousy was abundant and it intoxicated him the same way alcohol would. It drove him mad and made him do things he wouldn’t do in a normal state of him.

          _Don’t let him come here tonight,_ Sam probably begged. But he knew he would. There was no way Dean would miss this, even if he thought Castiel wouldn’t be here. _Please don’t let him see them together . . . And if he does, let the mask protect the boy._ Even though Sam was angry with Castiel, he didn’t want Dean to hurt him either. He still had some brotherly affection for the boy, even after everything.

          “Monsieur Winchester!”

          The voices of his employers snapped him out of his daze. He turned toward them, putting on a bright smile. “Monsieur Speight, Monsieur Fuller,” he greeted cordially. He noticed Meta Tronne as well as Raphael Barnes, the other lead male singer of the opera house. He said hello to them as well before stiffly returning his gaze to Castiel. He and that Masters girl were dancing now. Maybe they would get lost in the crowd and Dean would never find them?

          “Oh, what a night this is!” Meta Tronne exclaimed happily.

          “Yes, and what a crowd we have assembled here!” Monsieur Fuller agreed, looking around at all the important, wealthy people that surrounded them.

          “It almost makes you proud,” Monsieur Speight said, smoothing out his suit with a small smile.

          “And let’s not forget these past three months!” Raphael pointed out. “Three months of relief!”

          “Of delight!” Meta Tronne piped in.

          “Of Elysian peace!” Monsieur Speight laughed.

          “And we can breathe at last!” Zachariah chuckled.

          “No more notes!” Meta Tronne sighed happily.

          Zachariah, “No more ghosts!”

          “Here’s to health!” Raphael cried, raising his glass of champagne.

          “To a prosperous year!” Zachariah chimed in.

          Gabriel, “To the new chandelier!”

          “And may the splendor never fade!” Meta Tronne laughed.

          Sam raised his glass, but didn’t join in their talk. When they were done with their silly toasts, Sam gulped down his glass of champagne and asked a nearby servant for another. Maybe getting a little tipsy would help him get through the night. Their talk of Dean made him uncomfortable. _They see him as a menace . . . as a monster. But I see him as my brother. Nothing will change that._

 

\- - - -

 

          As they danced, Castiel’s sour mood returned to him. He held Meg in a very formal manner with one hand on her waist and the other in hers. Meg, however, kept trying to get closer and wrap his arms around his neck. “Meg, please,” he murmured, trying to gently push her back from him. He wasn’t in the mood to be touched right now, and he certainly didn’t want _him_ to see her hanging all over him like a . . . He stopped himself before he finished that thought. This was Meg – _his_ Meg. Well . . . wasn’t she? Why did he feel like she wasn’t? Why did he not care if she was or not?

          “Why?” she asked, his lower lips sticking out slightly in a pout. “It’s not like we haven’t been closer than that.”

          Castiel blushed and looked down. “ _Meg!_ ” he hissed. “Don’t speak of such things!”

          She rolled her eyes. “Do you think I care about what they think of us?”

          “We aren’t married, Meg!” Castiel pointed out. “I don’t want you to ruin your honor.”

          Meg sighed but seemed to give in, for once. Her eyes avoided his face, however. She seemed to be looking at everything but him, so Castiel did the same. He let his mind wander around the hall as they waltzed to the upbeat tune. When he finally looked back to his lover, he noticed that she was staring at his left hand on her waist. “What?” he queried sharper than he meant to.

          She looked up at him, a little startled. “Oh, I was just looking at the band on your finger.”

          He sighed and nodded. About a month after Castiel had moved in with her, Meg had brought up the idea of marriage. To be honest, the thought of marrying her horrified him, even back then. He politely declined saying that he wasn’t ready. He said that he was only twenty years old and he hadn’t even courted her. Meg seemed both flattered and pleased at the aspect of him courting her, so decided to let him do that. However, she insisted that they made some kind of commitment, so they got simple gold bands for their ring fingers. “They’re like a promise,” she’d told him. “A promise that we’ll spend our lives together.”

          “I’m surprised you’re wearing it,” she commented, bringing him back to reality.

          “Why wouldn’t I?” he retorted.

          She shrugged and they continued their dance.

 

“ _Masquerade!_

_Paper faces on parade_

_Masquerade!_

_Hide your face so the world will never find you_

_Masquerade!_

_Every face a different shade_

_Masquerade!_

_Look around, there's another mask behind you_

_Masquerade!_

_Burning glances, turning heads_

_Masquerade!_

_Stop and stare at the sea of smiles around you_

_Masquerade!_

_Grinning yellows, spinning reds_

_Masquerade!_

_Take your fill, let the spectacle astound you!_ ”

 

          A screech of terror erupted from the crowd. Castiel spun around to see a haze of smoke rising into the air. It came from an upper wing near a small staircase that swung down into the main hall. The orchestra and choir had come to a screeching halt. All of the dancing, and laughing, and talking had ceased. Castiel felt his stomach clench tightly in fear as the smoke began to clear. He felt Meg gripping his arm like a vice. She pressed close to him, her hammering heart echoing his.

          When the smoke finally cleared, a man stood there. Castiel’s jaw dropped.

          He’d forgotten.

          He’d forgotten how beautiful he was.

          His Angel of Music stood there dressed as the Red Death from the Edgar Allen Poe short story. The expensive looking, and finely crafted suit he wore was as red as blood. A rapier was attached to his waist and his mask . . . His mask frightened Castiel. It wasn’t the normal one that covered only one side of his face. This one covered _both_ sides and was in the form of a skull. It came down to his upper lip and the rest of his face seemed to be painted a ghostly white. The exposed skin around his eyes was painted black making his evergreen eyes pop out more than usual.

          Dean looked around at the assembled crowd with an appraising look. He put a single gloved hand on the hilt of his sword and took a single step down the small staircase. He opened his mouth and began to sing, and Castiel was lost.

 

“ _Why so silent, good Messieurs?_

 _Did you think that I had left you for good?_ ”

 

          Oh, his voice. Words could not describe how badly Castiel had missed that voice. He hadn’t even known it until now. He stared at his Angel as he continued to descend the stairs. _I never should have left, Angel,_ he thought, tears springing to his eyes. What had he done? Would his Angel forgive him? Would he take him back? Or would he spurn Castiel and send him away? _Don’t hate me, Angel!_ he silently pleaded. _Oh, I could not bear it if you hated me!_

          Dean’s gaze continued to travel around the room as if he were searching for someone.

 

“ _Have you missed me, good Messieurs?_

 _I have written you an opera._ ”

 

          Castiel watched in wonder as Dean pulled out a small satchel from inside his coat. He continued to look around; his eyes scanned over Castiel before looking away. The boy closed his eyes with pain. _He didn’t see me . . . He didn’t know it was me. Wait, the mask!_ He wanted to remove it, but Meg had a death-grip on his arm. She wore a mask as well . . . maybe that was why Dean didn’t recognize them.

 

“ _Here, I bring the finished score._

 _Don Juan Triumphant!_ ”

 

          Dean threw the satchel at Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller. Castiel could just stare at him. He wanted his Angel to look at him. He wanted his Angel to come to him and take him in his arms and take him away.

          Three months ago, he had been so afraid. Earlier this evening, he had been afraid. He had been afraid of his Angel and his wrath, but no longer. Dean’s voice made everything alright. It reminded Castiel that deep down, he _was_ good and kind. He truly was an unearthly being that Castiel didn’t deserve. Deformed or not, he was an Angel, and Castiel loved him for it.

          Without warning, he brought his free hand to his face and tore off his mask. Dean must have noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye, for his dark green orbs found Castiel’s in a second. His breath hitched as Dean started toward him slowly, almost teasingly. The crowd parted for Dean, spreading as far away from possible as if he had the plague.

          But then, Dean turned away from him and drew his sword. “A few instructions,” he spoke, looking the owners directly in the eye. “Before you begin to rehearse, that is.”

          Ridden with pain and rejection, Castiel stood there, numb. His Angel had turned away from him. His Angel hated him. _He should hate me,_ Castiel thought in despair. _After what I did to him, he should hate me! It serves me right! I don’t deserve an Angel!_ He felt Meg tugging insistently on his arm, but he refused to budge. His eyes were still glued to Dean. _Look at me,_ he begged. _Please, Angel. Look at me again._

          Dean stuck his sword in Meta Tronne’s direction, a wicked smirk plastered on his face.

 

“ _Meta Tronne must be taught to act_

 _Not his normal trick of strutting round the stage._ ”

 

          He then turned to Raphael. He stuck the tip of his sword into Raphael’s protruding gut.

 

“ _Our Don Juan must lose some weight_

 _It's not healthy in a man of Raphael’s age._ ”

 

          Dean spun around with celestial grace then to face Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller. He stared at them particularly sharply as if his eyes could burn.

 

“ _And my managers must learn that their place is in an office_

 _Not the ass._ ”

 

          And then, Dean sheathed his sword. He turned back toward Castiel. As Dean took a step toward him, Meg let go of his arm. The next thing he knew, she was gone. Castiel didn’t even care where she’d gone. He didn’t even bother to look. He was under his Angel’s hypnotic spell. _I missed you,_ he longed to say, but he knew that would be the wrong thing. He knew Dean would retort with the obvious question, _Then why did you leave me?_

          The Phantom smirked at Castiel. There was darkness and a mischievousness in it, but there was also a genuine look of affection as well. Maybe . . . maybe it’s not too late? Castiel thought, his heart soaring with hope.

 

“ _As for our star, Monsieur Novak . . ._ ”

 

          The sound of his surname on Dean’s voice made him shudder in delight. _Angel, take me. I am yours._

 

“ _No doubt he'll do her best_

_It's true, his voice is good_

_He knows, though_

_Should he wish to excel_

_He has much still to learn_

_If pride will let him return to me, his teacher_

_His teacher . . ._ ”

 

          Castiel just stared at him with wide eyes. Was that what he thought it was? Pride? Was he joking? _No matter,_ Castiel thought with a small shake of the head. _I’ll return to him . . . I’ll be his student if that’s what he wants. We can work things out then._ But that part bothered him as well. Dean called himself Castiel’s teacher. Dean was more than a teacher to Castiel – he was a friend, a companion, a lover, a guardian, a guide . . . He was everything Castiel had for a very long time. Did he call himself Castiel’s teacher just so the crowd wouldn’t suspect that they were lovers? Castiel supposed it made sense.

          While he pondered the meaning behind his Angel’s words, he didn’t notice that Dean had gotten very, _very_ close to him. In fact, he was about a foot away now. Castiel could see the pain shining clear as day in his eyes, and it slayed him. _Oh my Angel, what have I done to you?_

          Dean took another step toward him. He seemed so hesitant . . . so unsure. Castiel gave him a barely perceptible nod of consent. And then Dean was nearly on top of him. Their chests were nearly brushing; their faces almost close enough for their lips to meet. Castiel felt a little relieved by this. Dean had missed him too.

          Without thinking, Castiel reached up to cup Dean’s face. Unknowingly, he did so with his left hand. Without warning, Dean had grabbed Castiel’s hand and was staring at the golden band on his ring finger. Realizing his terrible mistake, Castiel grabbed Dean’s shoulder in his free hand. “Angel, it’s not what you think!”

          But Dean wasn’t listening. He tore the ring from Castiel’s finger and gripped it tightly in his hands. Castiel opened his mouth to continue to try to explain, but one look from Dean silenced him. The Phantom looked absolutely murderous. He glowered at Castiel before grabbing him by the throat. People around them gasped and screamed.

          “NO!” Sam’s voice echoed through the hall. Castiel saw the younger Winchester shove his way through the crowd in an effort to reach them. But Sam was so far away it seemed.

          Dean’s grip of Castiel’s throat was tight – suffocatingly tight. Castiel was gasping for breath. “D- D- D-”

          His Angel faltered. He loosened his grip and stared at Castiel with wide eyes. “What did you . . . ?”

          “Dean,” Castiel finally choked out. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Dean.”

          And then, Dean dropped him all together. Castiel collapsed to the floor, clutching at his throat and coughing. He noticed Dean staring on, his face twisted and contorted in shame and bewilderment. He pulled something out from a pocket of his suit jacket and threw it to the ground. Red smoke billowed everywhere, clouding Castiel’s vision and only making him cough more. “DEAN!” he began to shout. “DEAN, DON’T LEAVE ME!”

          He felt a hand on his shoulder, but it was too large to be Dean’s. _Sam,_ he thought before his vision faded to black.


	13. Twisted Every Way

          “GET OUT OF THE WAY!” Sam shouted as he shouldered his way through the terrified crowd while carrying a limp Castiel. Everything that he had wanted to avoid had happened. Everything he’d been praying didn’t occur had unfolded. Dean was back to terrorize the opera house, _and_ he was still out to get Castiel. Not only that, but now he had an opera he was forcing the owners to put on. And Castiel . . . Sam shook his head. The poor boy was still so young and he was already caught up in something so dark and twisted.

          He pushed his way through a door that led back to the dormitories of the theatre. Sam could hear footsteps hard on the wooden floor behind them. “Monsieur Winchester!” Balthazar’s voice sounded close behind him. “Monsieur Winchester, please! Castiel is my friend! Is he alright? What happened?!”

          Sam sighed as they neared the door that led to where the dancers slept. He briefly glanced over his shoulder and, to his great relief, Balthazar was the only one who had followed him this far. With a small growl, he nodded. “I’ll tell you, just help me lie him down somewhere. Open the door for me.”

          Balthazar complied, and helped Sam carry Castiel in and lay him on the nearest bed. Both men were huffing and puffing with it was over. “Okay . . .” Balthazar breathed, looking at Sam with a determined gaze. “What happened? Why is Cas unconscious?”

          The choreographer took a moment to try to piece together what exactly he was going to tell him. The truth? Should he reveal Castiel’s affair with the infamous opera ghost? Or should he alter it and make Castiel sound like a victim? _I suppose that_ is _the truth . . . Dean is taking things too far . . . But can you blame him? His first shot at love and it’s ripped away from him._ “It was him,” Sam finally whispered.

          “What? Who?” Balthazar demanded; his voice was laced with impatience.

          “The Phantom of the Opera,” the choreographer explained.

          Balthazar’s eyes widened. He turned away from Sam for a few moments and stared at the wooden floor. The dancer shook his head. “No . . . Why would the Phantom be interested in Castiel?” he murmured, almost as if he were speaking to himself. He looked back at Sam, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

          Sam shook his head. “I don’t expect you to.” As he rose to leave, Balthazar roughly grabbed his forearm.

          “NO!” he snarled, standing up beside the older man. “I’m not going to let you run off until you tell me what is _really_ going on her, Monsieur Winchester! Castiel is my best friend – I’d die before I let anything happen to him!”

          Sam had to admire Balthazar’s loyalty. It almost reminded him of his own to Dean. _But I have betrayed my brother . . . I’ve hurt him . . . I brought him to that world of unending darkness and he thrived in it. He let it consume him . . . I did this._ “Balthazar,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Phantom is Castiel’s teacher – the one who taught him how to sing so well. And I fear that the Phantom may be in love with Castiel.”

          Balthazar’s eyes widened. “You mean . . . really _love_ as in romantically?”

          “Yes,” Sam murmured, avoiding the younger man’s gaze.

          For a while, Balthazar was silent. In all honesty, Sam was surprised that not more people had suspected that _at least_ Dean had feelings for Castiel. Of course, their society would never accept two men loving one another in such a way. But to Sam, it was blatantly obvious just by the things Dean did to for the boy – the display at the masquerade was more than enough to convince him.

          “Does . . .” Balthazar began, trying to find the right words. “Does Castiel feel the same about the Phantom?”

          Sam looked down at the unconscious form on the bed. Castiel’s eyes were still closed, but the faint rise and fall of his chest indicated he was still breathing. If Sam had been asked that question a few hours ago, he would have promptly replied in the negative, but now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t miss the way Castiel had stared at Dean as if he were a god; the way Castiel’s eyes had shone with tears as Dean approached him. _Maybe I was wrong . . . maybe Castiel does love my brother . . . somewhere deep down. Maybe he is just fearful of him. It would make sense._

          “I . . . I do not know,” Sam admitted, not taking his eyes off Castiel. “I think so . . . But at the same time I am not sure. The Phantom is . . . well, _the Phantom_. I can’t imagine that he is an easy person to love, Balthazar. Maybe Castiel does harbor feelings for him . . . maybe he even loves him, but I _do_ believe that Castiel is scared of him. So, I think that yes, in a way Castiel _does_ love the Phantom of the Opera, but I think his fear overshadows it.”

          “What?!” a new, shrill voice exclaimed.

          Both men jumped and looked to the door of the dormitory where Meg Masters stood, her brown eyes brimming with tears. Sam stared at her, a twinge of fear spreading through his body. What would happen if Meg went and told the others that Castiel may have feelings for another man? To act on stage was one thing, but to actually have such feelings was a different boat. “Meg,” he said quickly, rushing to her side.

          Meg jerked back as he approached, a single tear slipping from her eye. “He is _in love_ with that _monster?!_ ” she shouted in disbelief.

          Sam didn’t know what to do, or how to react. He felt a stab of pain at the word she used to describe his brother. But he knew it was true; not only that, but it had become accurate. It seemed like Dean’s love for Castiel was driving him mad. After all, what _was_ he planning to do with this opera he gave to the managers?

          “Meg . . .” he said, struggling to find the right words. How could he explain to her that her lover was in love with someone else – another _man_ at that! “Do you remember Castiel talking about an Angel of Music?”

          She paused for a moment, her face becoming thoughtful. “Y- yes,” she sniffled.

          “Well, the Phantom of the Opera _is_ Castiel’s Angel of Music. They are the same man.

          Meg looked even more confused than before. “But Castiel said that his Angel was good and kind . . . that he taught him how to sing.”

          “The Phantom _did_ teach Castiel how to sing. He trained Castiel, and, over the years, he fell in love with him. The Phantom _is in love_ with Castiel. Love doesn’t even seem like a strong enough word – he is _obsessed_. That is why the Phantom goes to such great lengths to make Castiel a star – why he singles Castiel out above all others,” Sam explained. He was only giving her the tip of the iceberg; what lay beneath the surface of the sea was far greater, and significantly more complex. But this was a good start – enough to clear up at least some of her confusion.

          “But you said . . . that Castiel loves him back,” Meg pointed out, wiping away one of her fallen tears with a shaking hand.

          “The Phantom was a companion to Castiel – a friend when he had none. He was something . . . different. He was . . . He was his Angel of Music. Castiel adored him from the time he was a child. He looked up to him like a big brother – relied on him and looked to him for guidance.” _Just like I did,_ Sam thought grimly.

          Meg shook her head. “I . . . I cannot . . .” She paused and gripped a nearby headrest for support. “This makes my head swim . . . But, I came here to tell you that Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller request your presence at once, Monsieur Winchester.”

          Sam sighed. _Those two are helpless as infants,_ he thought bitterly. “Fine,” he grumbled. He looked over his shoulder at Balthazar who was watching the scene unfold with an expression of discomfort on his face. “Balthazar, would you mind staying with Castiel until he wakes?” Sam requested.

          The blond man nodded dutifully. “Of course, Monsieur.”

          “I will stay with him as well,” Meg piped up quietly. “I need to rest anyway . . . I feel a little faint.”

          Sam nodded and exchanged one last look with Balthazar before leaving the dormitory. As he made his way to the managers’ office, he felt a building sense of unease. Something very bad was going to happen sooner than later. _Dean, for God’s sake, what are you planning down there?_

 

\- - - -

 

          “Ludicrous!” Zachariah hissed, slamming his fist down on the desk. He rubbed his temple with his other hand, shaking his head. “Gabriel, have you even seen the score of this atrocity?” he grumbled.

          His partner was pacing back and forth in the office, anxiously running a hand through his hair. “I know, Zachariah,” he grumbled.

          “This is the final straw!” the older man continued to fume. “If that _ghost_ thinks that he can bully us—”

          Gabriel suddenly ceased pacing and faced Zachariah directly. He put his hand on his partner’s desk, his face contorted with rage. “ _We are not dealing with a ghost, Zachariah!”_ he practically screamed in his face. “This is a man! A man who has _killed before!_ This is a man who is willing to do whatever it takes to get what he wants! Do you not realize that this _is not a game_ anymore!? This is real, and we need to take the Phantom of the Opera seriously, or we _will_ pay the price for it!”

          Zachariah was silent for a few moments before he picked up a note off the desk. Gabriel groaned as he saw the red skull seal. _Another note,_ he thought sadly. Would they never escape the Phantom’s torment? Zachariah unfolded the note and read the message aloud.

 

_**Dear Zachariah,** _

_**Re my orchestrations: we need another first bassoon. Get a player with tone and that third trombone has to go too. The man could not be deafer, so please hire one that plays in tune.** _

__

          “You have one as well,” Zachariah muttered once he had finished reading his own.

          Gabriel sighed and went over to his desk. Sure enough, there was a note left for him right where it could easily be seen. He picked up the brittle paper and unfolded it. He could feel Zachariah’s questioning eyes on him, so read the note aloud so he could hear the message too.

 

**_Dear Gabriel,_ **

**_Vis a Vis my opera: some chorus members must be sacked. If you could find out which as a sense of pitch, it would be very beneficial to the performance. Do it wisely though, I’ve managed to assign minor roles to those who cannot act._ **

 

          Just as Gabriel finished reading his note, a shrill male voice split the air. “OUTRAGE!” Meta Tronne screeched storming into their office. “THIS WHOLE AFFAIR IS AN OUTRAGE!”

          Gabriel let out a laborious sigh. “What is it now, Monsieur?” he asked sharply. Although he knew better that to verbally admit it, Meta Tronne was becoming more of a nuisance than anything else. He was always whining and complaining about his parts and about everything the Phantom did. Surely he was only here to give Gabriel and Zachariah hell over something that didn’t have control of.

          “Have you seen the size of my part!?” Meta Tronne demanded putting his hands on his hips.

          “Monsieur Tronne,” Zachariah began tiredly.

          “It is an insult!” a new voice snarled. Gabriel groaned as he saw Raphael come up beside the diva.

          “Not you as well!” Gabriel muttered under his breath.

          “Just look at the script!” Raphael snapped. “It’s an insult!”

          Meta Tronne rolled his eyes and covered his face with one hand. “Oh, the things I have to do for my art.”

          “Ha, if you can call this gibberish ‘art’!”

          “What is going on here?”

          Gabriel’s mood lightened as Sam Winchester appeared in the doorway, squeezing past Meta Tronne and Raphael. “I could hear you all shouting from the other end of the hallway.”

          “We are trying to explain to them that the Opera Ghost . . . didn’t make Meta Tronne the star of the play,” Zachariah said, clearly trying to word it carefully so he wouldn’t offend those present.

          An almost haunted look passed Sam’s face. “What is this opera even about? Have you looked at it?”

          “As far as I can tell,” Gabriel began, disgruntled. “It’s about some kind of lord that is seeking the affection of a young stable boy. He devises some kind of plan with his friend to get the boy alone and seduce him.”

          Sam gulped and suddenly looked very uncomfortable. “Who is the star of this opera, then?”

          It was Zachariah who answered in a defeated voice, “Castiel Novak.”

 

\- - - -

 

          When Castiel came to, his head was throbbing. All he wanted to do was slip back into unconsciousness and let the pain go away. But then he remembered why he was unconscious in the first place. “DEAN!” he shouted, shooting upward in bed. The sudden movement made his already hazy vision swirl with blinding color.

          “Cas!” Balthazar’s voice sounded from somewhere close by. Firm hands gripped his shoulders and held him upright. “Hey, hey, buddy! Look at me. Cas? Can you hear me right now?”

          “Castiel?” Meg’s voice reached his ears too.

          Now Castiel was confused; where was he? All he remembered was passing out in the hall after Dean disappeared. How did he get here? When did Meg get back? And why was Balthazar with him? “What? Where am I? What happened?”

          “The Phantom showed up,” Meg explained. “And then Sam said that you passed out so he carried you here.”

          “Sam?” Castiel asked, still in a daze. He looked around. _Sam . . . I need to talk to Sam. I have to find Dean._ He lurched forward again, trying to get out of the bed, but Balthazar held him steady.

          “Easy, Cassie,” his friend said, tightening his grip on his shoulders. “You have to rest.”

          “No, I have to find Sam,” Castiel replied, shaking his head. “Please, let me up. I can walk.” He wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but he would be damned if he sat there and did nothing.

          Meg nodded and took his hand in hers. “I’ll take you to him,” she told him gently.

          Castiel gave her an appreciative nod and shakily stood. Balthazar and Meg each took hold of one of Castiel’s arms and helped him get to the door. Castiel’s vision slowly began to come into focus and he took more confident steps. _You can do this,_ he told himself as they finally reached the door that led out of the dormitories. “Where are they?” he asked Meg as Balthazar opened the door for them.

          “I think they’re in the managers’ office. Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller called Sam in there about ten minutes before you woke up,” Meg explained. Castiel noted that her grip on his arm was very tight – tighter than normal. _She’s probably just afraid that I’ll fall_.But there was something about her tone of voice and just the way she was acting that told Castiel that something had changed while he was unconscious. There was something different about Meg that made him uneasy.

          _She’s still my best friend,_ Castiel thought. _No matter what happens in these next few days, Meg always has, and always will be my friend. I just wish I realized that I loved Dean more a long time ago. This is my fault . . . it’s all my fault, and I have to fix this. I need to make it up to Dean. I need to show him that I_ do _care about him. I need to show him that he doesn’t have to kill or make threats. I need to show him that he is loved._

 

\- - - -

 

          “Ah, here’s our little songbird!” Meta Tronne sneered as Castiel, Meg, and Balthazar finally reached the managers’ office. The three of them squeezed past Meta Tronne and into the already full office. Raphael was leaning up against the back wall sulking. Monsieur Speight was pacing. Monsieur Fuller sat at his desk with his head in his hands. And Sam just sat at Monsieur Speight’s desk his chin resting on one of his hands and apparently deep in thought.

          “Monsieur Novak,” Gabriel greeted stiffly. “Quite the man of the hour, it seems.”

          “Yes, Castiel,” Sam said, his voice void of all emotion. “It appears that you have secured the largest role in this _Don Juan_.”

          “Castiel Novak,” Meta Tronne snorted from his place in the threshold. “He doesn’t have the voice!”

          Everyone ignored Meta Tronne’s comment and the conversation continued as if it had never been uttered. “So I take it you’re agreeing?” Meg asked, looking between the two owners. “You’re going to perform this travesty?”

          “It appears we have no choice,” Zachariah sighed resignedly.

          “He’s behind this!” Meta Tronne insisted, jabbing a finger at Castiel. “ _He’s_ the one behind all this! Castiel Novak!”

          Castiel suddenly felt a surge of hatred. Sure, Dean had written the opera for Castiel and had given it to the managers in hopes of having Castiel perform it. And maybe Dean had sabotaged Meta Tronne in the performance of _Il Muto_ so Castiel could take on the lead role. But never once had Castiel _asked_ for any of that. He had never _wanted_ any of that to happen. Whatever Dean did, he did on his own. If it was for Castiel or because of Castiel, it was still by Dean’s own free will. _I didn’t want this,_ Castiel thought with a pang of sorrow. _I didn’t want to get caught up in this game. I didn’t want to be thrown into the limelight like this. I didn’t want the Phantom of the Opera to fall in love with me. I didn’t want to live my life in fear of him taking revenge on me or my friends._

          “How dare you!?!” Castiel shouted, rounding on Meta Tronne. The older man recoiled, eyes wide. He clearly had not been expecting any retaliation. Castiel continued while giving the diva the fiercest glare he could muster. “You evil monster! How dare you!?”

          Meta Tronne seemed to recover at last. “Do you think I’m blind?” he prompted. “I’m not a fool, _Novak_! I can see what you’re doing! Staging all this _ghost_ nonsense to steal my spotlight!”

          “This isn’t my fault!” Castiel shouted in response. There was no other sound to be heard; in fact, it was eerily silent as Castiel spoke. “I don’t want any part of this crazy plot! I don’t want to be a star! _I don’t want to sing anymore!_ ”

          “But why not?” Gabriel finally inquired after a few moments of silence. “It’s your decision, but why not? I thought you would be in favor of these notes? I mean, they are in your best interest.”

          “He’s backing out,” Meta Tronne whispered more to himself than anyone else.

          “You have a duty to sing in this opera, Monsieur,” Zachariah butted in. He stared at the boy with hard, unforgiving eyes.

          Castiel shook his head defiantly. He was done listening to two fools who didn’t have any knowledge of music whatsoever. “I _will not_ sing it!” Castiel replied. “Duty or not, I will not sing it!” He felt tears of frustration spring to his eyes.

          “Castiel, it’s okay,” Meg murmured softly, taking his hand in his. She must have noticed the tears and the way his body was beginning to shake in anger. “You don’t have to sing it – they can’t make you do it.”

          “This Phantom has terrorized us for too long,” Meta Tronne spoke again. “We need to do something about it! We cannot simply bend to his every whim! We need to take a stand.”

          “And do what, Monsieur Tronne?” Sam growled from Monsieur Speight’s desk. “What could we possibly do? D—The Phantom has _shown_ us that he won’t take no for an answer. Are you prepared to undergo _another_ disaster? Has your voice even fully recovered from the last one?”

          The prima donna blanched at the mention of the fiasco a few months ago. He looked at the floor in submission.

          “Although I _hate_ to agree with him,” Meg mumbled, holding Castiel’s hand tighter and looking at the men around her. “Meta Tronne is right. We cannot simply sit here and do nothing. But I think the solution to our problem is staring us right in the face, Monsieurs. In fact, I think the Phantom himself has given us a chance to ensnare him.”

          “We’re listening,” Zachariah said slowly.

          “Yes, go on,” Gabriel encouraged.

          Castiel looked at his lover curiously. What exactly was she planning? He also noticed that Sam wore a very nervous look on his face. Castiel met his eyes for just a moment before looking back to Meg.

          “We shall play his game,” Meg began slowly, letting go of Castiel’s hand and stepping into the center of the room. “We shall perform his work, but remember that we hold the ace! If Castiel sings, then the Phantom is certain to attend, right? I mean, he clearly wants Castiel to be the star. He’ll show up to see him sing. And when he is there, we simply make certain that all the doors are barred, the police are there and armed, and the curtain will fall on the reign of the Phantom of the Opera!”

          Castiel stared at Meg in shock. _How can she think of that? Of murder?!_ His knees began to wobble. He felt weak. Balthazar’s hand grabbed him just as he was about to fall over. He gave his friend a grateful look, but was still stuck on Meg’s words. _Dean . . . Dean! They’re going to kill Dean!_ “No . . .” he whispered so softly only Balthazar heard him. “No . . . Dean . . .”

          “Madness!” Sam shouted, jumping up from his seat. He looked absolutely furious. “We cannot . . . _kill_ a man that is more shadow and phantom than anything else!”

          “It might work,” Gabriel murmured to himself.

          “It will turn the tide!” Zachariah agreed.

          Sam began to look a little desperate. His eyes were wide and his breathing was shallower. “Monsieur, believe me! There is no way of turning the tide!”

          Zachariah rose from his seat and gave Sam a hard look. “You stick to dancing, _Winchester_.”

          “Then help us!” Meg shouted, looking at Sam with pleading eyes. “Instead of warning us, help us!”

          Sam shook his head. “I wish I could.”

          “You can!” Meg insisted.

          “Don’t make excuses!” Zachariah interjected.

          “Please, believe me!” Sam began, looking around at all the hard faces. Castiel realized that everyone in the room seemed to be turning against the choreographer. They were all in favor of killing Dean once and for all while Sam was trying so desperately to save his brother. _I have to help,_ Castiel thought, but his mouth was dry. All he could do was think about Dean’s body getting shot down by policemen. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t happen – he couldn’t let it. He wanted to speak up against it, but his mouth was dry. He felt sick.

          “I intend no ill,” Sam went on. “But messieurs, remember that we have seen him kill! I just want to avoid any future unnecessary death!”

          “We say he’ll fall, and he _will_ fall!” Meta Tronne shouted.

          “Castiel is his undoing!” Meg added.

          “If this succeeds, we’ll all be free!” Gabriel added. “This so-called ‘angel’ has to fall!”

          “Angel of Music, fear my fury!” Meg muttered to herself. “Here is where you fall.”

          Sam slammed his fist down on the desk. “HEAR MY WARNING, ALL OF YOU! HIS IS THE FURY TO BE FEARED!”

          “This black angel of death should say his prayers!” Meg shouted back in response. “This time, we will be the ones that triumph!”

          Castiel was shaking now. It was real . . . It was becoming _too_ real. Dean couldn’t die. They couldn’t kill him. _Dean . . . Dean . . . I just want to see him! I want him! Where is he?! Please let him hear this! Let him hear this plan!_ “Please . . .” he tried to call to the others. “Please don’t do this!”

          “Mademoiselle, I beg you!” Sam was pleading now. “Don’t do this! For all of our sakes, do not do this!”

          “This will seal his fate!” Meg replied.

          “IF YOU DON’T STOP, I’LL GO MAD!” Castiel wailed above all the other voices. Everyone went deadly silent as all eyes rested on him. He was leaning up against a wall, breathing heavily. Balthazar was trying his bed to keep him upright and keep him on his feet. Castiel was hanging on to his friend and using the wall for support. He felt like he was going to vomit. This couldn’t happen. They couldn’t kill Dean. He had to make them stop – make them _think_ about this for a second. “Meg,” he said quietly, his pale blue eyes finding her brown ones. He had to make her stop. Whatever it took, he had to make her stop. The only way he thought to convince them was if he made them think that he was afraid – that Dean truly _was_ something to be feared.

          “Meg, I’m frightened,” he said, taking a stumbling step toward her. His voice came out half-strangled. Tears were beginning to fall – they were tears of fear for the life of his Angel of Music, and tears of just plain anger and frustration. They mangled his voice and made him sound like a broken, defeated man. “Don’t make me do this.” He grabbed her shoulder, partially to steady himself, but also to make her understand. “Meg, it scares me – don’t put me through this ordeal. He’ll take me, I know . . . He won’t let me go.”

          He let go of Meg then. He knew that Balthazar’s support wasn’t enough to keep him on his feet any longer. He slumped to the floor but, to his surprise, didn’t pass out. He just sat there, standing at the rug beneath him, the tears flowing uncontrollably. Balthazar was crouched down beside him, doing his best to comfort him. “What I once used to dream, I now dread,” Castiel whimpered. That much was true; he never wanted to sing on stage again. “If he finds me . . . it won’t ever end . . . And he’ll always be there singing songs in my head.” A part of Castiel was still fearful of this; he did have feelings for Dean, but Dean _was_ still the Phantom, and that alone was a terrifying thought. He remembered Benny’s death and the way he so easily destroyed Meta Tronne’s voice. Dean was a force to be reckoned with, and it _did_ scare Castiel to some degree. _But I still have to save him,_ he thought. _I have to find a way to keep him alive. Me and Sam . . . We’ll figure it out. Sam will tell Dean and we can get out of this._

          After a few moments of silence, Castiel heard Meta Tronne’s voice, “He’s mad.” For once, the diva didn’t sound scornful or cruel. In fact, he sounded genuinely remorseful about that fact; his voice was full of pity.

          “Castiel,” Meg murmured, kneeling down beside him. She gently cupped his cheek and wiped away some of the tears with her thumb. She told him the same thing she’d said on the rooftop three months earlier: “He is just a man. And while he lives, he will haunt us until we’re dead.”

          He shook his head numbly. “Twisted . . .” he breathed. “This is twisted every way . . . What answer can I give?” he wondered aloud, keeping his eyes on the rug. “Am I to risk my life to win the chance to live? Can I really betray the man who inspired my voice? Do I become his prey? Do I even have a choice? He kills without a thought . . . he murders the innocent . . . I know I can’t refuse, but I wish I could. Oh God, if I agree . . . what horrors wait for me in the Phantom’s opera?”

          Another silence descended upon those gathered at Castiel’s words. He could feel Sam’s burning gaze on him; it was actually very similar to his brother’s. You always knew when one of them was looking at you just by the intensity of their eyes alone. Meg lifted Castiel’s head so he had to look at her now. “Castiel . . .” she sighed. “Please, don’t think that I don’t care . . . But every hope – every prayer we have – rests on you now.”

          Castiel forced himself to look around at all the hopeful faces. They wanted him to sing – they wanted him to be the bait to get Dean in the line of sight of an armed policeman. That was what they wanted. He forced himself to meet Sam’s eyes. The choreographer’s blue-green gaze was hard and unyielding, but there was the slightest trace of reassurance in it. Sam was giving him the okay to agree. _He has a plan,_ Castiel thought in relief. Finally, he looked at Meg and gave a nod of consent.

          She gave him a gentle smile and kissed his lips. Castiel resisted the urge to push her away; he had to act now. He had to put on the biggest performance he’d ever done; Dean’s life depended on it. He kissed her back softly. When she pulled away, he felt relieved, but was then horrified by her next words that were clearly directed at Dean.

          “So, it will be war between us. But this time, clever friend, the disaster _will be yours._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! This story is, sadly, coming to an end! There will only be a few more chapters. :( I hope you've enjoyed it thus far!


	14. Sing for Your Phantom!

          It had been almost two weeks since Castiel had agreed to take part in Dean’s opera. Since then, he and Sam had hardly spoken. He knew that Sam had to have some kind of plan – why else would he let Castiel agree to be in the damn thing? Sam had to know something that Castiel didn’t, or had figured something out. Every time Castiel tried to speak to Sam alone or when to look for him, he was busy or nowhere to be found.

          The main cast as well as the chorus for _Don Juan Triumphant_ was assembled on the stage for their regular afternoon practice. Castiel sat in the front row at the very end, furthest from the piano. His eyes were on Sam who was on the side of the stage, watching rehearsal with a guarded expression. _Today is the day,_ Castiel told himself. _After rehearsal, I will pull Sam aside and force him to speak to me._

          Monsieur Crowley began to play a tune on the piano. “Chorus, this is you!” he said before giving them the cue to begin their part.

 

“ _Hide our sword now wounded knight!_

_Your vainglorious gasconade_

_Brought you to your final fight_

_For your pride, high price you've paid!_ ”

 

          Castiel took a deep breath and sang his own part without waiting for Monsieur Crowley to shout at him.

 

“ _Silken couch and hay-filled barn_

 _Both have been his battlefield._ ”

 

          Then it came Raphael’s turn. Castiel flinched in preparation and closed his eyes as Raphael sang the first note. He was the reason they had to keep rehearsing this part _over and over_.

 

“ _Those who tangle with Don Juan—_ ”

 

          Crowley let out an annoyed sigh and stopped playing. “No, no, no! Monsieur, here is the phrase!” He replayed the song up until Raphael’s part and sang it himself in a different pitch entirely.

 

“ _Those who tangle with Don Juan._ ”

         

          Raphael tried it again, and still failed to sing it in the right pitch. Castiel could tell that Crowley was beginning to lose his patience. “No . . . nearly, but no.”

          “Ugh!” Meta Tronne exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “His way is better – at least he makes it sound like music!”

          This earned a chuckle from Raphael and some of the chorus members, but it was a nervous one. It was as if they were afraid of invoking the Phantom’s wrath any more. “Monsieur Tronne,” Sam suddenly intervened. “Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?”

          Meta Tronne looked at Sam stiffly. Castiel didn’t miss how nervous the diva seemed to be at the mention of the Phantom. He gulped before responding, “The composer is not here, and he were—”

          “Are you certain of that, Monsieur?” Sam cut him off with a finalizing glare.

          But Meta Tronne was not finished. “Why does it matter what notes we sing?” he prompted. “No one really cares!”

          “ _I CARE!_ ” a voice erupted in the auditorium.

          Everyone went silent, then. No one even dared to scream. Castiel was rigid, his heart pounding in his chest. He knew that voice – knew it better than anyone. _My Angel is here._

          “ _DO YOU HEAR ME?! YOU WILL PERFORM MY OPERA, AND YOU WILL DO SO IN THE RIGHT PITCH OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL MAKE THE_ IL MUTO _PRODUCTION LOOK LIKE A CHILDISH PRANK!_ ” Dean’s voice echoed off the walls of the auditorium.

          Castiel stood still, almost afraid that if he moved even slightly, Dean would call him out. He could feel his Angel’s searing gaze cutting through him and did everything he could to ignore it. A part of him longed to run to Dean now and wrap his arms around him and never let him go. But another part was telling him to run while he still could – flee and get as far away from this place as possible.

          “ _Castiel,_ ” Dean’s voice sounded again. This time, it was softer; gentler. But there was an unspoken warning in it that Castiel could hear. It was almost as if Dean was _tempting_ him to disobey whatever he was about to say. “ _Sing._ ”

          The boy remained where he was. The eyes of the chorus, Meta Tronne, Raphael, Crowley, and Sam were all glued to him, waiting to see what he would do. Castiel didn’t even open his mouth. He pressed his lips together in a thin line and looked at the floor.

          “ _Castiel!_ ” Dean’s voice came again. “ _SING!_ ”

          He refused.

          “ _SING YOU INSOLENT BOY! SING FOR YOUR PHANTOM!_ ”

          Castiel said nothing in response.

          There was a painful silence, and the Dean’s voice came again. It boomed through the theatre like thunder and was ridden with so much anguish and rage that Castiel began to tremble. “ _I AM YOUR ANGEL OF MUSIC! I AM DYING, CASTIEL! SUFFOCATING HERE IN THE DARK! GIVE ME BREATH! GIVE ME LIFE! SING FOR ME, OR I WILL TAKE FROM YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE EVER LOVED!”_

          The boy’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe his ears. He knew that Dean was willing to go through great lengths, but . . . to hurt Castiel so directly. He never thought that Dean would do anything to hurt him . . . _He thought._ “No!” Castiel shouted in response. He was on his feet now, staring up at Box 5 where he knew his masked tormentor probably looked. “No, you can’t!”

          “ _Oh, but I can, Castiel,_ ” Dean’s voice purred. He seemed delighted that he had gotten some kind of reaction out of him. “ _A man as hideous as this is capable of anything, believe me_.” And then, Dean began to laugh. It started out as a dark, maniacal chuckle but then morphed in to something demonic and terrifying. It sounded as if Dean really was more demon than man.

          And Castiel became afraid again. His fear overpowered any other emotion he had for Dean. He needed to get out of here – he needed to escape from this prison. Without warning, he jumped up from his seat and sprinted off the stage.

          “CASTIEL!” Sam called after him, but he ignored the choreographer. He had to get out. He had to escape this madness. Grabbing a cloak, Castiel clumsily made his way out one of the back exits of the opera house. He made his way around to the back where he knew a small stables was located.        “Excuse me, monsieur,” he said approaching a middle-aged man standing in front of one of the horse stalls.

          The man smiled warmly at him. “What can I do for you, lad?” he asked, holding out a hand to shake.

          Castiel shook it swiftly before slipping him a few francs. “Can I take one of your horses? I’ll return it, but right now I need to leave. I’ll be gone a few hours tops.”

          “Alright,” the man said, counting the francs in his hand. “I suppose you can. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the carriage out for you?”

          “No, that’s alright,” Castiel assured, opening the nearest stall. “It’s faster this way.”

          With the man’s help, Castiel saddled up a dark bay gelding in about five minutes. Honestly, Castiel was a little surprised that Sam hadn’t come outside looking for him. Maybe he had given up . . . _Or maybe he ran into Dean._ The thought made him shudder. _I have to get away from here . . . There’s only one place I know to go to . . ._

          As Castiel mounted the horse, he shivered, but it was not from the biting winter wind. He urged the horse forward into a canter and headed in the direction of the cemetery just outside of the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hey again! Um, the quote where Dean is shouting to Castiel to "GIVE ME BREATH! GIVE ME LIFE!" is an actual quote from "Love Never Dies" (AKA the sequel to the Phantom of the Opera). 
> 
> I just love that quote and I really wanted to include it.
> 
> That is all. c:


	15. Wandering Child

          The cemetery looked deserted and forbidding. The entire plot of land was fenced off with iron bars that kept unwelcome visitors from desecrating graves. Not only were the iron bars just a little bit unsettling (even during the summer time), mist had settled over the earth and was snaking through the headstones and the tombs like a mass of writhing snakes. The sky was a grayish white; no sunlight could be seen peeking through the thick layer of clouds. The few trees that grew around the cemetery were dead and barren of leaves. Overall, it was just a very bleak scene.

          Castiel opened the cemetery’s gate causing it to let out a long, eerie creak. He entered slowly, his eyes scanning his surroundings as if he feared a ghost would emerge from the fog. It sounded almost foolish to think about, but then again he had not had much luck with phantoms lately.

          As Castiel made his way to his father’s grave, he felt an overwhelming sense of grief. He had not thought of his father for a few months – his mind had been occupied on other, more pressing matters. But now, he could devote all of his attention to his deceased father.

          Dmitri Novak died with Castiel was just seven-years-old. His wife, Victoria, died during childbirth which meant that the only companion Castiel had for the earliest and most crucial years of his life was his father. Dmitri was a kind soul – he was the reason Castiel _was_ so caring and so gentle with those around him. Dmitri had always taught him to judge someone based on their character, not their appearance. He had done all he could to teach Castiel kindness and responsibility, even when his body failed him.

          His father was also the reason Castiel loved to sing. When he was young, his father would spend many evenings playing the violin in the den of their small house. Dmitri taught Castiel the lyrics to those songs and let him sing along. He gave Castiel an interest in music and opened up his world to so many new possibilities. And for that, Castiel would always be grateful.

          When Dmitri finally did pass away from Tuberculosis, he promised Castiel that he would send him the Angel of Music. In a way, Castiel knew that it was one of those gentle, white lies that people tell to comfort others. But when Dean appeared and claimed to be Castiel’s Angel of Music, he wanted so desperately to believe that it was true.

          He missed his father – missed him more than anything in the world. In a way, Dean had been a substitute for his father when he was young. He had looked up to Dean for guidance – he looked to Dean to teach him the ways of the world. Not only that, but it was because of Dmitri that Castiel believed in Dean – why he allowed himself to fall in love with the Phantom of the Opera. Because he believed that he was some kind of Angel sent by his father to look after him.

          Castiel sighed. How naïve he had been! How foolish! But the past was in the past, and it could not be changed.

          “Clarence thought of everything and nothing,” Castiel whispered to himself as he walked throughout the graves. “His father promised him that he would send him the Angel of Music. His father promised him . . . His father promised him . . .”

          In his grief, Castiel began to sing. Even now, it was his sole comfort. It made the pain just a bit easier to bear.

 

“ _You were once my one companion._

_You were all that mattered._

_You were once a friend and father . . ._

_Then my world was shattered._

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Wishing you were somehow near._

_Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed,_

_Somehow you would be here._

_Wishing I could hear your voice again,_

_Knowing that I never would._

_Dreaming of you won't help me to do_

_All that you dreamed I could._

_Passing bells and sculpted angels,_

_Cold and monumental._

_Seem for you the wrong companions,_

_You were warm and gentle._

_Too many years fighting back tears._

_Why can't the past just die?_

_Wishing you were somehow here again,_

_Knowing we must say, “Goodbye.”_

_Try to forgive, teach me to live._

_Give me the strength to try._

_No more memories, no more silent tears._

_No more gazing across the wasted years._

_Help me say, “Goodbye.”_

_Help me say, “Goodbye.”_ ”

 

          By the time Castiel had finished his song, he was at the Novak tomb. It rose above the ground and looked rather grand in the middle of the cemetery. _It is a memorial . . . but it always was a little . . . over-dramatic, I guess. It doesn’t fit Father at all,_ Castiel thought. Dmitri was a humble man – not the kind that would want to be buried like a nobleman.

          Tears were rolling down his cheeks at the memories of his father. Why did he have to leave so early? Why did he have to die and leave Castiel on his own? _Father,_ he thought sadly. _I am so confused . . . I am frightened. I am in love with another man, Father. I know it is a sin. I know that it is wrong, but I cannot help myself. Father, if you knew the man I spoke of . . . I once thought he was so wonderful. I thought that he was an Angel, Father – I thought that he was the Angel of Music. I thought you sent him to me. He taught me how to sing. He made me a star at the opera house. But then . . . this turned into something else – something darker. Father, I am frightened._

_I love this man – I know I do. But I feel as if he is two in one. I love the Angel – the man I knew in the beginning. He was so kind to me, Father. He loved me, and I gave myself to him in every way I possibly could. But then, he turned into something else. He became a Phantom. He haunts me . . . kills in my name, and it scares me. How can I love someone who is so bloodthirsty? How can I love someone who kills for the joy of killing? How can I love a monster?_

_But I cling to the hope that the Angel still lives somewhere inside him. I want him back, Father. I want the Angel I knew back more than anything in the world. I would die for him if he asked it of me, but this – the Phantom . . . I do not know what to do. The Phantom has roped me into an opera I do not want to take part in. He has made me the star. I should be happy . . . But I only feel fear and unease at the prospect. What am I to do? What_ can _I do? I am lost . . ._

          Castiel collapsed before his father’s tomb, tears streaming ceaselessly down his face. He sobbed into his hands. He wished that his father could speak to him – give him advice. He needed guidance. He needed someone to point him in the right direction for he was at a loss. He didn’t know what decision to make – which road to take in this twisting labyrinth of heartbreak and confusion.

          And then, a soft voice reached Castiel’s ears.

 

“ _Wandering child,_

_So lost, so helpless,_

_Yearning for my guidance._ ”

 

          For a moment, Castiel felt hope flare inside him. Was this his father? But then, he recognized the voice – it was a voice one did not forget. The tears began to flow faster now. His body shook with a mixture of fear, frustration, and downright pain. He managed to sing back, his voice coming out broken and tortured.

 

“ _Angel of Music,_

_Friend or Phantom?_

_Who is it there staring?_ ”

 

          The response that he received made Castiel’s heart ache even more. The reply was ridden with emotion – with agony that a mask of rage had been trying so hard to conceal.

 

“ _Have you forgotten your angel?_ ”

 

          _No,_ Castiel thought. _I could never forget._ His heart soared slightly at Dean’s soft tone – at the way he referred to himself as an angel and not a phantom. _Is this him? Has my Angel returned to me? Did Father hear my prayers and help make it so?_

 

“ _Angel, oh, speak!_

_What endless longings_

_Echo in these whispers?_ ”

 

          Dean’s reply came swiftly and confidently. The pain in his voice seemed to be wiped away by Castiel’s question. Even Castiel was surprised to find that there was hardly any trace of fear in his voice. _Angel, please let this be you. Don’t let this be a Phantom trick!_ Dean’s voice sent a shiver of pleasure throughout Castiel’s body. This was something he had not felt in a very long time – ages it seemed. It made his heart pound and his blood race.

 

“ _Too long you’ve wandered in winter,_

 _Far from my fathering gaze . . ._ ”

 

          Castiel stood then. It felt as is his body was shining like a shooting star. His Angel had returned! His Angel must have returned to him at long last!

 

“ _Wildly my mind beats against you!_ ”

 

          Even Dean sounded lighter – happier. There was a hint of triumph in his voice. Castiel had not only gotten his Angel back, but it seemed that the Angel that had been lost for too long had finally found its human as well.

 

“ _You resist . . ._ ”

 

          And then they harmonized so flawlessly that Castiel closed his eyes as a warm feeling of pleasure rippled throughout his body.

 

“ _Yet your/the soul obeys!_

 

_Angel of Music,_

_You/I denied me/you!_

_Turning from true beauty!_

_Angel of Music,_

_Do not shun me/My protector!_

_Come to your/me strange angel!_ ”

 

          Then, Castiel saw him. Dean emerged from behind a nearby headstone. He wore his usual black clothes and cape as well as the white mask, but he looked different. His eyes were darker and there were bags beneath them. His face looked more worn and weathered. There was even a little scruff beginning to form along his chin and jawline. Castiel still smiled at him; his Angel had come at last.

          Dean did not smile in return, but his lips curled upward slightly and his eyes brightened. He stretched out a hand to his human companion and began to sing the soft, seductive melody that had started it all.

 

“ _I am your Angel . . ._

 _Come to me, Angel of Music._ ”

 

          Castiel smiled at him and made his way toward Dean slowly. That was when he heard the thundering of hooves.

          “CASTIEL!”

          The boy froze in mid-step. _Meg._

          Dean’s face hardened significantly. His eyes narrowed and he clenched his hands into fists. But he continued to sing, beckoning Castiel forward.

 

“ _I am your Angel of Music!  
Come to me, Angel of Music!_ ”

 

          Castiel looked up to see Meg sliding off a horse and running toward them, her dress flying around them wildly. “Angel of Darkness, cease this torment! Castiel, wait! Whatever you may believe, this man – this _thing_ is not an Angel! He _was not_ sent by your father! If anything, he is a demon from the deepest pits of hell here to torment us!”

          “Meg—” Castiel began, but Dean cut him off.

          “Bravo, Mademoiselle!” Dean sneered, drawing the rapier he’d kept hidden under his cape. Castiel’s eyes widened in fear as Dean pointed the sword’s blade in Meg’s direction. “Such spirited words, you speak! And yet you were the one who fled from me at the masquerade!” Meg straightened up at his words, but Castiel saw the fear in her eyes. “Let’s see, Mademoiselle,” Dean continued with a dark glint in his eyes. “How far you dare go!”

          “Castiel, c’mon!” Meg called, reaching a hand out to him.

          “Ah, ah, ah!” Dean said, stepping in between them, his sword still aimed in Meg’s direction. “You’re not taking him anywhere!”

          “You can’t win his love by making him your prisoner!” Meg shouted in response.

          Castiel froze. _How does she . . . ? Did she guess? Is it that obvious? Does she know about my feelings for him?_ He stared at Meg with wide eyes, suddenly very fearful. Would she shun him now? Would she hate him for being in love with another man? Did she even know that Castiel loved this mysterious Phantom?

          “Keep walking this way!” Dean goaded, brandishing his rapier. With a swish of his cape he, took a step forward, his evergreen eyes burning. “I’m right here, Mademoiselle! I’m here – the Angel of Death!”

          Beginning to panic, Castiel realized he had to do something and quickly. If he didn’t, only God knew what would happen to Meg. “STOP!” he shouted, rushing to get in between them both. Castiel didn’t miss the pain that flashed in Dean’s eyes as he stood in front of Meg.

          “You would die for her?” Dean growled the question. He seemed to be attempting to hide the pain with anger, but Castiel knew him well enough to hear it in his voice.

          “She is my friend,” Castiel said in defense. “It doesn’t have to be this way!”

          Dean shook his head and glowered at Castiel. “No, you’re wrong. It _does_ have to be this way. It’s the only way I know – the only way _they_ —” he pointed the tip of his sword at Meg “—will listen and take me seriously!”

          “Well, I won’t stand here and let you kill her!” Castiel snapped. “You turn to deception and violence before you speak truthfully! You lied to me – deceived me! You told me you were an Angel, and yet you murder innocent people!”

          “Innocent?!” Dean laughed. “Like Benny Lafitte? The man who spied on the poor ballet girls as they changed? The one who practically molested the girl Sam is in love with? Oh yeah, he was ‘innocent’!”

          Castiel stubbornly shook his head. “I will not stand here and let you _kill people in my name!_ ” he shouted. “Meg, let’s go!” He gently grabbed Meg’s hand and walked backwards, not daring to turn his back toward Dean, until they reached Meg’s horse. He helped her mount it and then climbed on behind her. All the while, Castiel could feel Dean’s eyes burning into him. He shuddered slightly before giving the horse a swift kick.

 

\- - - -

 

          Dean watched as Castiel and his lover rode off out of the cemetery. He let out a low growl that sounded more like a hiss. He sheathed his sword and punched the nearest headstone. “DAMN IT!” he roared before collapsing to his knees. He felt tears spring to his eyes and tried desperately to blink them away.

          He had been so close.

          _So fucking close,_ he thought, shaking his head. _I had him. I had him right there! He was in my grasp and then that whore shows up!_ He pounded his fists against the cold, snow-covered ground beneath him.

          But Castiel could have stayed. Castiel could have gone with him, but he ran off with _her_. And what was that about killing innocents in his name? Sure, everything Dean did these days, he did for Castiel. But even then, he only killed those who he _knew_ deserved it! It wasn’t like Dean had gone off and killed Meta Tronne for getting in the way (even though he desperately _wanted_ to).

          Castiel had _left_ him.

          “Very well,” Dean finally said, pushing himself to his feet once more. He looked toward the gate where Castiel and Meg had disappeared. He brushed some of the snow off his pants and sleeves before taking a deep breath. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, bracing himself for what he was about to say next. He knew it was time for this; he had given Castiel a choice and his Angel of Music had denied him.

          _I cannot live without him,_ was all Dean could think. _I love him . . . I hate him and love him all at once. But I need him. I need him more than anything else in this world – more than air, more than food, more than water, more than music!_

          “You will be mine, Castiel,” Dean said softly. “And until you agree, let it be war upon you both!”


	16. Let My Opera Begin

          “Do you understand your instructions?” Meg shouted from her place in Box 5. A group of armed policemen as well as Monsieur Speight and Monsieur Fuller were gathered on the stage below her. “When I blow this whistle, you are to take up your positions at your assigned exit! You will then be instructed to secure the doors. It is imperative that all the doors are properly secured!”

          “Zachariah,” Gabriel asked as Meg finished her speech and the guards began to disperse. “Do you think we’re doing the right thing?”

          The older man gave his partner a rather uncertain look, which was surprising. Usually, Zachariah was so sure about everything, but now he looked worried; confused. “I don’t know, Gabriel . . . But do we have any other choice?”

          “Would you like me to give the order, Mademoiselle Masters?” what must have been the head policemen called up to Box 5.

          “Yes, please give the order!” she called back. Her eyes scanned the auditorium before spotting an officer standing the orchestra pit. She called down to him, knowing he would be in a good position if something when wrong on or near the stage. “You in the pit!” she shouted. “Do you have a view of this box?”

          “Yes, Mademoiselle!” the officer called back.

          Meg nodded. “If something goes wrong on stage, you will be the closest! Remember that when the time comes, shoot – shoot to kill.”

          The officer looked confused. “How will I know when it is time?”

          She pursed her lips together in a thin line before looking away from him. “You’ll know,” she murmured to herself. “We’ll all know.”

          “My men are now in position, Mademoiselle!” the leading officer shouted up to the box.

          Meg let out a small sigh of relief. Maybe this would go smoothly – maybe she would succeed. She had to. Her mind briefly wandered back to the day in the cemetery about a week before. She had almost lost Castiel to that demon. And he had _fled_ to him! He had been ready to walk right into the arms of that monster. _Castiel is mine,_ she told herself. _That monster has no claim on Castiel – it is not like they were intimate. Castiel did not give up his virtue to that miserable creature!_ She paused and thought for a moment. He . . . hadn’t. Had he? She wasn’t even sure.

          “Go ahead!” she distractedly called down to the officers. Her head was still reeling at the idea that Castiel had been intimate with such a foul being. As the policemen checked each of the doors, Meg sat down in the seat in the box and sighed. _This will all be over soon,_ she tried to tell herself. _Soon the Phantom will be dead and you will be married to Castiel. All will be well._

          “Are the doors secure?” she asked after about a minute or so of waiting.

          Before the lead officer could reply, a chilling voice echoed through the auditorium. It made Meg’s hair stand on end; she knew who it belonged to.

 

“ _I’m here: The Phantom of the Opera!_ ”

 

          She gasped and ran to the edge of the box. It sounded as if the Phantom were standing just above her on the maintenance ledge for the chandelier. She looked about wildly, a chill shooting up her spine.

 

“ _I’m here: The Phantom of the Opera!_ ”

 

          This time, it sounded as if he were down on the stage singing to the audience. Meg’s eyes scanned the theatre nervously, and she saw the policemen below her doing the same. The Phantom’s voice kept echoing in her head over and over . . . Or maybe it wasn’t an echo. Maybe it was really him.

          “ _I’m here!_ ”

          “ _I’m here!_ ”

          “ _I’m here!_ ”

          Suddenly a shot went off, deafening all other noise. “YOU IDIOT!” Meg shouted down from her box. Her attention was drawn away from the Phantom now as she searched for the soldier who had fired. “YOU’LL KILL SOMEONE! YOU ONLY SHOOT WHEN THE TIME COMES!”

          “But Mademoiselle!” the officer began to protest.

          “ _NO ‘BUTS’!_ ” the Phantom’s voice pierced the air again. This time it was so terrifyingly loud that it felt like he was everywhere – all around them. _He’s more devil than man,_ Meg thought, clenching her hands into fists. “ _For once,_ ” the Phantom continued. “ _Mademoiselle Masters is right!_ ”

         

“ _Seal my fate tonight!_

_I hate to have to_

_Cut the fun short,_

_But the joke's wearing thin . . ._

_Let the audience in . . ._

_LET MY OPERA BEGIN!_ ”

 

\- - - -

 

          Castiel was shaking. The performance was only hours away and he was already beginning to sweat. His mind went back to the last conversation he’d had with Dean – how they had parted on less than good terms. _I tried to reason with him,_ Castiel thought, shaking his head. _I tried . . . But maybe I can find a way to convince him. Somehow, I have to. Oh, God forgive me! How can I love him? I know I shouldn’t and yet I do. He . . . He is my Angel of Music._

          Time was running out, and Castiel knew it. Soon, it would be too late to save Dean. He’d spoken to Sam and the younger Winchester had told him that Dean knew about the plan to kill him. Castiel had sighed in relief at that, but Sam went on to say that Dean had a plan – a plan that he wasn’t telling anyone. Both Sam and Castiel were in the dark as to what exactly Dean was planning. “Just go out there and sing your parts,” Sam told the boy. “Sing and pray. Pray for all of us – we need all the help we can get.”

          Sam was worried – scared for his brother. Castiel could see it. And Sam was very rarely frightened by anything. Knowing that he was unnerved and nervous about all this only made it worse for Castiel. He didn’t want to go out there. He didn’t want to sing an opera someone wrote _about_ him. He didn’t want Dean to get himself killed trying to prove a point to the managers. He didn’t want Dean to _die because of him_.

          He sighed and ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Dean,” he whispered. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

 

\- - - -

 

          A rather ugly tune blared from the orchestra pit as the Phantom’s opera finally began. Meta Tronne and the majority of the chorus members were already assembled on stage. When the music erupted, they began to sing.

 

“ _Here the sire may serve the dam!_

_Here the master takes his meat!_

_Here the sacrificial lamb utters one despairing bleat!_

_Poor young boy!_

_For the thrill on your tongue of stolen sweets,_

_You will have to pay the bill tangled in the winding sheets!_

_Serve the meal and serve the maid!_

_Serve the master so that, when tables, plans and maids are laid_

_Don Juan triumphs once again!_ ”

 

          With a curdling laugh, the chorus and Meta Tronne began to disperse. They giggled with one another, scrambling to get off the stage as Raphael and Kevin Tran entered. Raphael wore clothes similar to those the Phantom usually wore – a black suit with a long, fluttering cape. He had a ruffled white shirt underneath the suit jacket that exposed just a little bit of his chest. Kevin wore a similar outfit, but his was red instead of black.

          Raphael put a hand on Kevin’s shoulder and guided him down to center stage and began to sing his part.

 

“ _Passarino, faithful friend,_

 _Once again recite the plan._ ”

 

          Kevin nodded and looked to the audience as he said his own lines. “The boy you invited has arrived,” he informed Raphael slowly. Then, he sang.

 

“ _Your young guest believes I'm you,_

 _I, the master, you the man._ ”

 

          Raphael nodded more confidently and recited the rest of the plan with ease.

 

“ _When you met, you wore my cloak,_

_With my scarf you hid your face._

_He believes he dines with me_

_In his master's borrowed place!_

_Furtively, we'll scoff and quaff,_

_Stealing what in truth is mine,_

_When it's late and modesty starts to mellow with the wine!_ ”

 

          Kevin smiled and even let out a small chuckle at Raphael’s enthusiasm as he sang. He stepped away from his friend and began to walk to the side of the stage.

 

“ _You come home!_

_I use your voice..._

_Slam the door like crack of doom!_ ”

 

          Raphael nodded and began to walk to the other side of the stage, keeping his eyes on Kevin. He used his hands to help act out the scene, making motions as if the boy they spoke of were standing there beside him.

 

“ _I shall say_

_Come hide with me!_

_Where, oh where?_

_Of course, my room!_ ”

 

          Kevin finally turned back to Raphael and let out a delighted laugh. “Ha, ha! Oh, the poor thing hasn’t got a chance!”

          Raphael smiled widely and crossed the stage to his friend. He handed Kevin all of the things he would need to dress up like Don Juan.

 

“ _Here's my hat, my cloak and sword._

_Conquest is assured_

_If I do not forget myself and laugh!_ ”

 

          With that, both men laugh before exiting stage.

          A boy, about twenty years old stood just out of sight of the audience on the side of the stage. His crystalline eyes shone in the dim light of the wing. It was time for him to go on. He took a deep, shuddering breath before stepping out on stage.

          _This is it._

_This is the point of no return._


	17. Past the Point of No Return

          Castiel could feel the eyes of the entire audience on him, and it made him uneasy. Everyone was counting on him for different reasons. Dean was counting on him to sing. Meg, Gabriel, and Zachariah were counting on him to be bait. Sam was counting on him to help his brother get out of this alive. He put on a small, almost furtive smile and drew a rose from his back pocket. Castiel casually sniffed the flower before bringing it down to his chest. He stared at the blood-red petals and forced himself to sing.

 

“ _No thoughts within his head but thoughts of joy._

 _No dreams within his heart, but dreams of love!_ ”

 

          His hand went up to cup his throat at the last note. He had never sung anything so high before in his life; he was surprised he had been able to even do so without having his voice crack. He heard Kevin re-enter the stage just behind him. Castiel wasn’t supposed to see him in the opera, so he continued to stare at his rose. He ran his fingers along the petals, taking a moment to appreciate how soft and smooth they were.

          He knew that Dean had written the rose in for a reason – Dean always gave him roses. In fact, the entire opera was littered with little hints of what had gone on between the two of them. Castiel was the only one who saw these, of course. The opera _was_ written for _him_ and no one else.

          “Master?” Kevin’s voice sounded behind him.

          Castiel waited for Raphael’s voice to answer him, and, while a voice _did_ answer, it was not Raphael’s.

 

“ _Passarino, go away, for the trap is set_

 _And waits for his prey!_ ”

 

          For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. And then, Castiel heard Kevin’s footsteps as he retreated off stage. Castiel’s heart was hammering in his chest; Dean might be able to fool some with his impression of Raphael’s voice, but not him. Even then, Dean’s voice was not as deep as Raphael’s – not as loud. Dean’s was low, but it was soft; smooth; seductive.

          Castiel looked out into the audience, and tried to casually work his gaze up to Box 5. Unfortunately, it was too dark for him to see Meg and what exactly she was doing. Surely she knew that Dean had replaced Raphael? Surely she knew that Dean was on stage with him right now? Then he remembered the guards – the policemen that were there to _kill_ his Angel.

          Dean did not seem frightened though. Castiel could hear him as he walked down the stage – as he approached him. All the fear that Castiel might have felt for Dean was wiped away and replaced with a sudden urge to protect him. He had to somehow keep himself in the way of any possible shot the officers might have. _My Angel has protected me, even if I didn’t realize it. He has always protected me. Now, I have to protect him._

          And then, Dean began to sing. Castiel closed his eyes and leaned his head back slightly as he got lost in Dean’s angelic voice.        

 

“ _You have come here_

_In pursuit of your deepest urge._

_In pursuit of that wish which till now has been silent . . ._

_Silent._ ”

 

          Castiel opened his eyes and looked to his right to see Dean standing there. He was wearing the exact same outfit Raphael had been wearing with a black mask that covered both sides of his face. One the final note, Dean raised a finger to his lips, giving Castiel a hungry look.

          The boy shuddered. The heat of Dean’s eyes was enough to begin to drive him mad. Words couldn’t even describe what Dean’s voice did to him. His Angel began to sing again, staring at Castiel while he did so, flourishing his cape every now and then for dramatic effect.

 

“ _I have brought you_

_That our passions may fuse and merge!_

_In your mind you've already succumbed to me, dropped all defenses,_

_Completely succumbed to me._ ”

 

          Dean took another step toward him. Castiel raised his eyes to his, trying to look as innocent and yet as inviting as he could all at once. He had to make the act convincing . . . and besides, he wanted Dean to give Dean the best performance he’d ever seen.

 

 “ _Now you are here with me;_

_No second thoughts_

_You've decided . . ._

_Decided._ ”

 

          Violins began to play. This melody was nothing like the one that had played earlier when the chorus sang. No, this was not loud or painful to listen to. This one was soft. This one was seductive.

          Dean began to sing again, and Castiel was lost. He thought that Dean sang “Music of the Night” beautifully – it was nothing compared to this. Then again, this song was a very different kind of song. This time, there was no question that Dean was doing everything he could to seduce Castiel – to win him over.

          And Castiel was more than willing to oblige Dean at this point. Dean’s voice reached his ears – teased them. It made a rush of pleasure ripple throughout Castiel’s body. _Angel or demon, I do not know which you are,_ Castiel thought as he closed his eyes again. _Do you not know what you do to me?_

 

“ _Past the point of no return._

_No backward glances._

_The games of make believe are at an end._ ”

 

          Dean was walking toward him now at a painstaking pace. Every step was like a taunt – he was teasing him. Castiel wanted Dean near him _now_. He wanted to touch him – wrap his arms around him and have Dean’s hands roam his body. He wanted to kiss him and be kissed.

          He wanted Dean. He wanted Dean with every fiber of his being.

 

“ _Past all thought of if or when, no use resisting_

 _Abandon thought and let the dream descend!_ ”

 

          Dean was right beside him now. Without warning, Dean’s hand closed around Castiel’s throat. Castiel let out a small gasp as Dean pulled him so that the boy’s back was flush against his front. Dean’s head rested against Castiel’s for a moment before his lips grazed his neck.

          Castiel leaned his head back again, exposing his throat to Dean. He rested his head against Dean’s shoulder and let himself relax in his Angel’s hold. Dean continued to sing, his mouth right in Castiel’s ear, his breath tickling the skin.

 

“ _What raging fire shall flood the soul?_

_What rich desire unlocks its door?_

_What sweet seduction lies before us?_ ”

 

          The hand that held Castiel’s neck released him and ran down his to his shoulder. And then, Dean began to move away from him. His hand continued to move down Castiel’s arm until it reached his hand. Dean paused then, he was an arm’s length away from the boy now. He continued to sing, never taking his eyes off his reason for existence.

 

“ _Past the point of no return, the final threshold!_

_What warm unspoken secrets will we learn_

_Beyond the point of no return?_ ”

 

          Castiel simply stared at Dean, his mouth agape and his eyes glazed over with lust. His body trembled slightly, but from want – from need – not fear. His breath hitched as he realized that now it was his turn to sing. He smiled at the thought. _Your turn, Dean._

 

“ _You have brought me_

_To that moment when words run dry_

_To that moment when speech disappears_

_Into silence, silence._ ”

 

          He sang, looking into Dean’s eyes, turning his body so he faced his Angel. He dropped Dean’s hand and looked down at the rose still in his grasp. Castiel gave Dean another seductive look before turning around. He walked away from his Angel, being sure to wave his hips slightly. As he sang, Castiel shook his head, to convey his character’s confusion.

 

“ _I have come here, hardly knowing the reason why,_ ”

 

          Castiel stopped walking then. He turned back to Dean, his eyes wide. His cheeks were slightly flushed. Castiel immediately noticed that Dean’s eyes and face had darkened. His body was stiff, but he knew it was not in anger. Dean watched him the way a predator watches its prey. His eyes raked along Castiel’s slender body, taking in every inch of him.

          As Castiel sang the next part, he made sure to look directly into Dean’s evergreen eyes. He walked toward him in the same teasing way Dean had done, his hips still swaying. Castiel dropped the rose as he sang, giving Dean his full attention now.

 

“ _In my mind I've already imagined_

_Our bodies entwining defenseless and silent._

_And now I am here with you_

_No second thoughts, I've decided . . ._

_Decided._ ”

 

          He wished Dean knew how much truth those words contained. Castiel _was_ here with him now. _I know who I need,_ he thought. _Who I cannot bear to live without . . . Dean, please understand what I’m saying._ He gave his Angel a barely noticeable nod as he sang the last word. For a moment, he thought he saw recognition flash in Dean’s eyes. Did he understand? Did he know what Castiel was trying to say?

          Castiel didn’t have time to dwell on it; he had to continue the song. He gently took Dean’s hand in his and stepped so his body was about an inch from his Angel’s.

 

“ _Past the point of no return._

_No going back now._

_Our passion play has now at last begun!_

_Past all thought of right or wrong . . ._

_One final question:_

_How long should we to wait, before we're one?_ ”

          His hands were resting on Dean’s chest now. Castiel dared not break their intense stare. The audience, Meg, Gabriel, Zachariah, Sam, the policemen sent to kill Dean – they all faded away. All that mattered now was Dean.

 

“ _When will the blood begin to race?_

_The sleeping bud burst into bloom?_

_When will the flames at last consume us?_ ”

 

          Without warning, Dean spun Castiel around again so that his back was pressed against Dean. Castiel let out a small sigh of pleasure as his Angel’s arms locked around his small body. Dean’s hands began to roam up and down his chest and even down to his belt. Castiel threw his head back so it rested on Dean’s shoulder and nearly moaned as Dean’s lips found the sensitive spot on Castiel’s neck just behind his ear. The boy’s eyes rolled back in his head and he closed his eye in ecstasy.

          They both sang then, their voices harmonizing together to make one of the most erotic sounds Castiel had ever heard. Together, they made the most beautiful music Castiel had ever heard. They sounded like two angels singing their hearts out to each other.

 

“ _Past the point of no return,_

_The final threshold!_

_The bridge is crossed,_

_So stand and watch it burn!_

_We've passed the point of no return._ ”

 

          The music began to die down, but Castiel didn’t want to break free of Dean’s hold. And it seemed that Dean did not want to let go either. The audience was silent – there was no applause, no roar of approval. Castiel didn’t care; he was with Dean and that was all that mattered.

          And then, Dean began to withdraw from their embrace. Castiel’s eyes flew open. He turned to look at Dean, but his Angel was standing beside him with a terrified look on his face. Castiel stared at him, confused. What was wrong? Why did Dean look so scared?

          Castiel’s mouth fell open as Dean got down on one knee before him. His masked Angel pulled something out of his pocket – something that Castiel recognized. It was the ring Meg had given him what seemed like an eternity ago. It was the one Dean had torn off at the masquerade. He stared at Dean in astonishment. _What is he doing?_

          And then, Dean began to sing.

 

“ _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime._

_Lead me, save me from my solitude._

_Say you want me with you here beside you . . ._ ”

 

          Castiel felt tears brim in his eyes. Was this happening? Was Dean really doing this? He smiled, but just happened to look up. Immediately, Castiel’s smile fell as he saw what was waiting in the wing opposite of him. Two policemen stood with their guns ready, their eyes fixated on Box 5, waiting for an order. _No! No, God! Please no!_ Castiel felt himself panic. He needed get Dean out of there _now_. He looked down at his lover with pleading eyes.

          Dean didn’t understand Castiel’s look of fear. He looked down briefly before taking Castiel’s left hand in his. He slipped the ring onto Castiel’s ring finger, his own green eyes filled with tears. “Please . . .” he whispered before he sang the last part:

 

“ _Anywhere you go let me go too!_

 _Castiel, that's all I ask of—_ ”

 

          The officers raised their guns and took aim. Castiel did the only thing he could think to do: he tore off Dean’s mask.


	18. Down Once More

          What happened next happened so quickly that hardly anyone could remember it. Everyone – Castiel, Dean, Sam, Meg, Gabriel and Zachariah, and even Meta Tronne – had a different version of what happened after Castiel tore off the Phantom’s mask. A panic ensued. A fire began to blaze in the theatre. People were caught in the inferno and were killed. People were crushed and trampled in the mad dash for the door. Raphael’s body was found with a noose around his neck.

          It was complete and utter madness.

          Castiel stood on the stage with Dean’s black mask in his hand, staring at the sight before his eyes. He had remembered Dean’s deformity, but his memory was still _nothing_ compared to the real thing. The wig that Dean wore was now lopsided, exposing the one side of his face where no hair could grow. The skin on the right side of his face was red, distorted and twisted from the flames of the fire that had mutilated him many years ago. The majority of his right cheek was burned the worst; tendons, muscle, and bone were visible. The skin around his eye was singed, making his eye look smaller than the other. And then right side of his head that was usually covered by the wig was also badly burnt. Like his cheek, it was burn all the way down to the bone and the flesh was red and raw.

          Dean did not react when Castiel removed his mask. He didn’t shout or scream. He just remained where he was – kneeling on the floor – with a wounded expression on his face. His green eyes were wide and now full of tears of betrayal. “Castiel . . . ?” he asked, his voice ridden with confusion.

          People in the audience were screaming and shouting at Dean’s face. Castiel saw one woman in the front row faint and collapse into her husband’s lap. He glanced up and saw the officers in position, ready to shoot.

          “SHOOT HIM!” Meg’s voice thundered from Box 5.

          “NO!” Castiel shouted in response, rushing forward and pulling Dean close to him. If he stayed close to him the officers might not have a clear shot. “DEAN!” he shouted to his lover. “DO SOMETHING!”

          A shot went off and Castiel felt the bullet zip by his head. He jumped and pulled Dean tighter, squeezing him in fear. _They won’t stop because I’m here. They’ll kill us both! We’re going to die!_ “DEAN!”

          The gunshot seemed to cause Dean to spring into action. His arms circled around Castiel’s waist and he pulled a knife from his jacket pocket. Castiel watched as Dean threw the knife at a nearby rope. The blade sliced through it easily, and Castiel stared with wide eyes as the chandelier that hung above the audience shook. “D—” Before he could even finish his sentence Dean threw something on the ground before them. Flames and smoke erupted up all around them, and then they were falling.

 

\- - - -

 

          Meg could not believe her eyes; the chandelier was crashing down right on top of the audience. All she could do was watch in horror as it hit the ground with an earth-shattering thud. A burst of flame shot up from the wreckage, engulfing everything it touched. People all around her were screaming and fleeing for their lives. The stage was no empty – Castiel and the Phantom were gone.

          Everything had gone to hell.

          _This is my fault . . ._ Meg thought in horror, and then she shook her head. _No. This is that_ demon’s _fault! He did this! He stole Castiel!_

          Ever since Meg had overheard Sam and Balthazar talking about Castiel’s feelings for this Phantom of the Opera, she had begun to get a little paranoid. She tried to convince herself that Castiel didn’t really _love_ this monster. She tried to tell herself that the Phantom was just using Castiel for his own sick, twisted schemes. Castiel was brainwashed – that had to be the only explanation. She remembered the way Castiel had walked toward the Phantom in the cemetery almost like he was in some kind of trance.

          _The Phantom has some kind of demonic hold on him . . . Don’t worry, Castiel! I’ll find you and free you from his grasp!_

          The thought was easier imagined than done. As she ran out of Box 5, she realized that she had absolutely no idea where to begin. She didn’t know where the Phantom dwelled. She didn’t know how to find him. She had no idea where he might have gone. Her heart began to pound. If she couldn’t find Castiel, only God knew what would happen to him!

          She began to descend the staircase that led down to the main entrance hall. People were swarming everywhere, fleeing for their lives. “Mademoiselle Masters!” a voice called. Meg turned to see Sam Winchester rushing toward her, shoving through the crowds. The man she recognized as Balthazar was close on his heels as well as a small, slender blond woman. “I know where they are!” Sam shouted over the roar of the crowd.

          “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you!?” Meg screamed at him as she reached the choreographer. “You knew, and you let it happen!” She noticed a look of uncertainty flash across Balthazar’s face. The pretty blond stayed behind Sam, her eyes wide with fear and her seemingly fragile body shaking.

          Sam looked distraught. “I knew Dean would come, but I didn’t think that he’d take Castiel in the middle of the performance! I never could have imagined that he did _that!_ ” he tried to convince her. “Even then, it’s too late now! What matters is that I can take you to them! I know where they are!”

          Meg nodded; they couldn’t afford to waste any more time. “Please! Hurry!”

          Sam nodded, and then turned to Balthazar. “Please, take Jessica out! Make sure she’s safe!”

          “I want to help!” Balthazar protested. “Castiel is my best friend! I can’t just sit idly by!”

          The choreographer gripped his shoulder tightly. “Balthazar, please. Jessica – I need her safe. Please, do this for me.”

          Balthazar looked like he was about to argue once more, but then sighed. “Fine,” he practically grumbled. “I’ll get Jessica to safety . . . But then I am coming back in here. You two might need help.”

          Sam gave the dancer a thankful nod. His eyes then found Jessica. The young woman looked up at him fearfully. “Sam . . . Sam, I’m frightened.

          In a show of affection that Meg never thought she’d see from the hard, otherwise unemotional man, Sam pulled her into a tight hug. “It’ll be okay,” he told her softly. He pulled away so he could look into her eyes. “Jess . . . If I don’t come back—”

          “Don’t you say that!” she scolded. Her hands reached up to cup both sides of his face. “You’re _coming_ back!”

          “If I don’t,” Sam said softly, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking at her gently. “I want you to know that I love you. I have loved you for years – from the moment you came to the opera house to train as a ballerina. I have kept an eye on you and I have made sure that you had everything you needed and that you were safe no matter what. I know that I’m an old man, and I know that you could find someone better than me, but—”

          He was suddenly cut off as Jessica’s lips crashed into his. Sam’s eyes widened in disbelief, but then he relaxed. He closed his eyes and deepened the kiss, pulling the beautiful blond closer to him. Jessica’s hands tangled in his hair as she kissed him fiercely, seemingly afraid to let him go.

          When they finally broke apart, Sam cupped her face in one of his hands. “I _will_ come back,” he told her breathlessly. “Now go with Balthazar. I will find you when this madness is over. I swear to you.”

          Jessica nodded, a tear overflowing from her eyes and sliding down her cheek. She gave him one final hug before taking Balthazar’s hand.

          Sam and Balthazar exchanged a brief nod before the older man got lost in the crowd, dragging Jessica along behind him. Meg watched them go, an ache plaguing her heart. How many people were going to get hurt as a result of the Phantom? How many more would die? What if Sam _didn’t_ come back? How many more lives would be ruined by the infamous Phantom of the Opera?

          “C’mon!” Sam said gruffly, grabbing Meg by the arm and leading her toward backstage. “Follow me, stay close, and remember to keep your hand at the level of your eyes!”

          His words confused her. “What? Why?” she queried as she jogged to keep up with his massive strides.

          “The Punjab Lasso,” Sam explained. “It’s what Dean uses – it’s how he killed Benny Lafitte. And now that is not the only casualty. Besides all the people that were crushed and burned by the chandelier, Jessica found Raphael’s body backstage strangled.”

          “Dean,” Meg said softly, looking at Sam questioningly. “You keep calling him Dean – like you know him. How do you even know his name?”

          Sam paused as they reached the door that led backstage. He looked at her with dejected eyes before replying: “Because I do know him – the Phantom of the Opera’s real name is Dean Winchester. And he is my brother.”

 

\- - - -

 

          Castiel’s arm was beginning to hurt as Dean dragged him down to his lair. They were taking a different route this time – not the original one that required a boat to access Dean’s home. It seemed like they were just descending an endless set of stairs. Castiel could feel the rage radiating off Dean’s body in waves. He dared not speak, not wanting to draw out the monster that was lurking just below the surface of his otherwise carefully controlled façade.

          He could not see Dean’s face, but he could hear him as he grunted and grumbled things under his breath. “Down once more to the dungeon of my black despair,” Dean growled, jerking Castiel’s arm forward painfully. His voice then rose in volume. “Down we plunge to the prison of my mind!” Castiel flinched as Dean began to scream as loud as he could, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. “DOWN THIS PATH INTO DARKNESS DEEP AS HELL!”

          Without warning, Castiel felt himself being flung forward. He stumbled and tripped over his own feet. He cried out as he landed on his side on the hard, stone ground. As he looked around, he realized that they had finally reached the end of the stairwell and were now in Dean’s lair. He looked up at his Angel, his Phantom, his protector, his tormentor, and did not see rage. No, he saw something worse – something that crippled Castiel and made his heart break apart. He saw pain – betrayal, hurt, agony. The boy shook his head. “I don’t understand . . .” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Why are you doing this, Dean?”

          “WHY?!” Dean shouted in response. “YOU ASK ME WHY?!” He shook his head, and raised a hand to the deformed side of his face. With an angry snarl, he went on. “Why am I bound and chained in this cold and dismal place? It’s not for any mortal sin, but the wickedness of my abhorrent face!”

          Castiel shook his head. “Dean . . .” he sighed.

          “Hounded out by everyone!” Dean tried to growl, but his voice came out as an almost strangled whisper. He shook his head despairingly, tears brimming in his evergreen eyes. “Met with hatred everywhere . . . No kind words from anyone . . . No compassion anywhere . . .” he trailed off, finally meeting Castiel’s gaze. The boy’s heart shattered as he saw the tears begin to fall – sliding down Dean’s face. “Castiel,” the Phantom whimpered. “Why?” When he didn’t reply, Dean took a furious step forward. “WHY?!”

          Castiel didn’t reply immediately. He stared at his broken and wounded Angel of Music. A part of Castiel wanted to reach out and comfort him, but another part of him was angry. He thought back to what happened on stage – Castiel had pulled his mask off in order to save Dean from getting shot. _I tried to save him, and he treats me like this?_ He stood up slowly, watching as Dean pulled off the wig that covered half of his face. Castiel stared at him for a moment before taking a deep breath. He set his jaw and gave Dean a hard stare. “Well? Are you happy, now? Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood?” When Dean didn’t reply, Castiel went on, taking a daring step toward him. “Am I now to prey to lust for flesh?”

          Dean looked at him, wiping some of the tears away from his face. His face significantly hardened and his eyes narrowed into a searing glare. “This fate which condemns me to wallow in blood has also denied me the joys of the flesh!” was his swift and harsh response. “You are the only one who ever—” he stops suddenly and shakes his head again. Dean’s face softened and the tears returned to his eyes. “This face . . .” he breathed, looking at Castiel with stricken eyes. “This infection . . . that _poisons_ our love . . .”

          The boy’s stern and angry mask fell away. _Oh, Dean . . . I’m sorry._ Castiel stared at him with sad eyes. _I wish you understood._

          “This face . . .” Dean went on, looking away from him. Castiel didn’t miss the glistening of tears in his eyes. “Which earned . . . a father’s fear and loathing . . . A mask . . . my new, unfeeling scrap of clothing.” He faced Castiel then, his face contorted with both rage and agony. “Pity comes too late!” When the boy looked down, shaking his head, Dean grabbed his chin in his hand. “LOOK AT ME AND FACE YOUR FATE!” he screamed. “An eternity of _this_ —” he pointed at the distorted side of his face with a sharp jab “—before your eyes.”

          Castiel stared at him before taking a step back. “Dean . . .” he sighed listlessly. With one hand, he reached up and cupped the deformed side of his Angel’s face. “This haunted face holds no horror for me now,” he tried to soothe. “It’s in a soul that the true distortion lies. Don’t you understand that I am not afraid of your face? It is everything else you do that frightens me. Look at all the people you have killed! I would have loved you, Dean . . . I would have followed anywhere you led. But now . . .”

          The Phantom stared at Castiel, his eyes wide and glazed over with pain. “Castiel . . .” He paused then, his eyes focused on something else, all emotion draining from his face. “Wait. I think, my dear, we have a guest!”

          Castiel followed Dean’s eyes to the metal gate that separated the lake from the rest of the catacombs. His eyes widened as he saw a familiar shape standing the water on the other side of the gate. He shook his head in disbelief. _No . . . How did she find me?_ Castiel took a step toward Dean. “Meg.”


	19. The Final Lair

          Sam had taken Meg halfway through the labyrinth and gave her instructions to get to the gate. “I’m going to go back and get Balthazar and a few other men,” Sam explained. “Go to the alcove and try to talk Dean down. Try to get Castiel to come with you.”

          Meg looked at him, dubious. “I’m not going in unarmed,” she informed softly, showing Sam a pistol she had tucked in the waistband of her skirt. “If that monster tries anything—”

          Before she could even finish her sentence, Sam grabbed her hand roughly. “No,” he told her firmly.

          “But—”

          “No,” Sam said again. “Dean . . . Dean might be crazy – he might have really gone off the deep-end this time . . . But he’s still my brother. And I don’t want him to die, okay? So can you . . . Can you not?”

          Meg nodded to make Sam happy, but she knew what she had to do. She knew that she had to put an end to this once and for all. Dean Winchester was not going to come out of this alive. She would make Castiel hers and hers alone at long last . . . even if that meant she had to kill the Phantom of the Opera.

 

\- - - -

 

          Dean put on a grim smile as he observed Meg standing behind the gate. “This is indeed an unparalleled delight!” he purred, wrapping an arm around Castiel. “I had rather hoped that you would come. And now, my wish comes true! Mademoiselle, you have truly made my night.”

          Meg grabbed the bars, her brown eyes glued on Castiel. “Free him!” she shouted. “Do what you like only free him! Please, Monsieur Ghost! Have you no pity?”

          “Your lover makes a passionate plea!” Dean laughed, looking down at Castiel by his side.

          Castiel shook his head. “Meg, it’s useless!”

          “I love him!” Meg tried again, shaking the bars the best she could. “Does that mean nothing? I love him! Show some compassion!”

          That seemed to be the complete wrong thing to say, for Dean’s arm left Castiel’s shoulder and his hands clenched into fists. He took a big step toward Meg, his lips curled in a snarl. “THE WORLD SHOWED NO COMPASSION TO ME!”

          Meg seemed unintimidated by Dean’s roars. “Castiel, Castiel! Let me see him!”

          Dean stalked over to the side of the alcove and pulled a lever. The metal gate began to rise upward slowly, water dripping from the bars. “Be my guest, Mademoiselle.”

          As the gate began to rise, Meg rushed underneath it, not minding that she was getting drenched from the falling water. Castiel didn’t move, instead he watched Dean’s movements closely. _What are you planning? What are you going to do to her?_ he wondered. Even if he didn’t love Meg, she _was_ his friend. That would never change. She was the last tie he had to his past, after all. _Don’t make me hate you, Dean . . . Please._

          Dean entered the water with his arms held out as if he were welcoming her. “Mademoiselle, I bid you welcome!” Dean began with a chuckle. His voice was higher than usual, and sounded almost unhinged. He didn’t sound . . . himself. He sounded like he was slowly breaking – or perhaps already broken. “Did you think that I would harm him? Why should I make him pay for the sins which are _yours!_ ”

          Castiel’s mouth fell open and he gasped as Dean leaned down and picked up a lasso out of the water. Before Castiel could even shout a warning to Meg, or ask Dean to stop, he had secured the rope around her neck and pulled it tight. He looped the end of the rope through the bars of the gate and proceeded to pull it even tighter.

          “DEAN!” Cas shouted. “DEAN, STOP IT!”

          But the Phantom of the Opera wasn’t listening to his angel anymore. He grabbed Meg’s hand and tied it to the metal bars. “ORDER YOUR FINE HORSES NOW! RAISE UP YOUR HAND TO THE LEVEL OF YOUR EYES! NOTHING CAN SAVE YOU NOW, EXCEPT PERHAPS CASTIEL!” With that, he turned back to the boy, his eyes blazing with what looked like the fires of hell. “YOU CARE FOR HER?!” Dean roared.

          Castiel started to shake his head, but Dean cut him off. “I will give you two choices! Either you start a new life with me and buy her freedom with your love, or you send your lover to her death! This is your choice! This is the _point of no return!_ ”

          He stared at Dean in shock. Things had been going so well . . . or at least they seemed to be given the circumstances. But Meg’s presence seemed to infuriate him to no end. _Why did you have to show up, Meg?_ Castiel wondered angrily. But even then, he could not excuse Dean’s behavior. He shook his head. “Dean . . . You don’t have to do this! Please, don’t do this! Meg is my friend!”

          “SHE RUINS US!” Dean screamed. “YOU LOVE HER! YOU LOVE HER MORE THAN ME! YOU CHOSE HER OVER ME! I CAN’T—” his voice abruptly broke off. Dean’s eyes closed and when they opened, they had tears in them. “I cannot lose you to this . . . this _WHORE_ again!”

          “Castiel!” Meg cried out. “Please, don’t let him control you! Say you love him and my life is over! Don’t you get it? He is brainwashing you – using you to his own advantage! Either way you choose, he has to win!”

          Dean shook his head and pulled the rope around Meg’s throat even tighter, making her gag. “You’ve past the point of no return! There’s no point in fighting it anymore, Castiel! Come to your Angel!”

          “Dean,” Castiel sighed, shaking his head. “We had such hopes, and now those hopes are shattered!”

          Ignoring Castiel’s words, Dean went on. “So do you end your days with _me_ or do you send her to her _grave?!_ WHICH IS IT, CASTIEL?! IT’S TIME TO CHOOSE!”

          Meg let out a low growl and struggled against the ropes. “Why make him lie to you to save me?!” she hissed at Dean, her eyes bright with rage.

          Castiel took a deep breath before wading into the lake toward Dean. His Angel of Music still clutched the rope that held Meg’s noose tightly in his hands. Dean watched warily as Castiel approached him, his green eyes full of tears and also fearful of what would happen next. Castiel did not yell, or scream, or shout. Instead, he did what he knew would calm both him and Dean down. He did what Dean had always taught him to do: sing.

 

“ _Angel of Music . . ._

_You deceived me!_

_I gave my mind blindly._ ”

 

          Dean’s face seemed to soften at his words. He looked away from Castiel and down at the water that was lapping at his legs. “Blindly,” he whispered to himself, shaking his head.

          “Castiel, no!” Meg shouted at him. “Please, don’t give in to this creature’s torment! I fought so hard to free me!”

          Finally, Castiel looked to Meg. He shook his head in distress. “Meg . . . you don’t understand – you never did. I don’t want to be free! I never needed to be free! I don’t want to leave him, Meg! I . . . I love him.”

          “Castiel . . .” Dean breathed.

          The boy continued toward Dean, his blue eyes shining with sadness and pity. He sang again, his high-pitched voice ringing throughout the alcove.

 

“ _Pitiful creature of darkness,_

_What kind of life have you known?_

_God give me courage to show you_

_You are not alone._ ”

 

          Castiel stood right in front of Dean now. He gazed upon his Angel’s face without fear and gave him a small smile. “I choose you, Dean Winchester,” Castiel breathed before stretching up to kiss him.


	20. Track Down This Murderer

          Dean Winchester could hardly breathe when Castiel kissed him. Granted, they had done this before – they had done much more than this before. However, after that fateful day in the alcove when Castiel had removed Dean’s mask, Dean never thought it would never happen again. He never imagined that Castiel would ever want to kiss him, touch him, or make love with him again. He was so sure that Castiel was horrified and disgusted by him, and that his beautiful Angel of Music would never want him ever again.

          He had done everything he could to win back his love. He had gone mad with his love and his obsession. He had done things that he would have never done if he were not desperate. He had killed. He had . . . done horrendous things.

          Dean knew that he didn’t deserve love. He knew that he was a horrible creature – more monster than man. He knew that he did not deserve someone like Castiel. He knew that he was damned to hell for loving and lusting after another man; and he knew that his face had condemned him to a life of pain and solitude. In all of his years living underneath the opera house, Dean had learned to be lonely. He had learned to make the best of that life. Ever since he saw his face – what he looked like after the fire – he knew that he would never get a chance at love. He knew that he would never be able to be happy. He would always have to hide and be afraid of the world.

          Castiel had done the unspeakable – the unimaginable. He had _kissed_ him. Castiel had kissed a murderous, terrible monster and had not shuddered in fear.

          When their lips met, words cannot describe the feelings that surged through Dean. For the first time in a long time, he felt _loved_. He felt _desired_. He felt _wanted_. Someone in this world actually gave a damn about him. It was a feeling of relief, of ecstasy, of . . . happiness. In one kiss – one gesture – all his dreams came true. Dean felt as if his broken and tortured soul had finally been made whole.

          And then, Castiel’s words nearly set his soul ablaze with passion. “ _I chose you, Dean Winchester._ ”

          It took a Dean a few moments to even comprehend what was even happening. He couldn’t believe it. Castiel was kissing him – after all Dean had done, Castiel was still able to _kiss_ him. Dean clumsily attempted to kiss him back, his hands going up to rest on Castiel’s shoulders. And then, all too quickly, Castiel began to pull away. Dean, not wanting to break contact, leaned forward as far as he could until their lips broke apart.

          A pair of blue eyes stared into his. There was a moment of pure silence as they gazed into each other’s hearts. And then, Castiel’s lips were on his again. This time, Dean knew that it was not just any kiss. This was not a kiss to save Meg Masters’s life. This kiss was full of passion . . . of a genuine _need_. And this time, Dean was ready for it. He kissed back, his arms snaking around Castiel’s body. Dean let out a shuddering gasp as one of Castiel’s hands reached up and touched the burnt side of his face. His eyes flew open, expecting to see disgust or fear on his lover’s eyes, but saw none. Castiel’s eyes were closed and he was putting all he had into the kiss. His thumb ran along Dean’s damaged cheek, and his fingers ran along his jawline softly.

          Dean bit back a moan and pulled Castiel closer so that their bodies were pressed against each other. He daringly ran his tongue along Castiel’s bottom lip, requesting entrance. The boy obliged with a moan, and Dean explored every inch of his angel’s mouth.

          And then, they broke apart. Both of them were gasping for breath, their chests heaving. Dean stared at his Angel of Music, his vision blurring with tears once more. _What did I do, God? What did I do to deserve this?_ He knew the answer: he did nothing. He _didn’t_ deserve this beautiful creature. Dean looked at Castiel with a kind of recognition, as if he saw him for the first time. Everything Dean had done in the past four months came flashing back to him. All of the pain, all the fear, all the death – Dean was responsible for it. He glanced over at Meg who still had the noose around her throat and was suddenly horrified.

          _I was ready to kill that girl . . ._ He looks back to Castiel, his eyes wide. _I . . . I became the monster everyone thought I was,_ he thought, his core aching at the thought. He stepped away from Castiel, his eyes running up and down his lover’s body. _And look at what I did to him . . . What I put him through . . . Castiel, you deserve so much better than me._

          Dean walked out of the water almost in daze and retrieved his rapier off the organ bench. He could feel the eyes of Castiel and Meg on him as he did so. The Phantom paused for a moment, admiring the blade, and then started toward Meg. The woman began to shake in fear, her eyes wide with error. Dean ignored the petrified look on her face and continued until he was about a foot away from her. He raised the rapier, the tip of th blade just about an inch away from her throat.

          “DEAN!” Castiel shouted.

          The Phantom ignored Castiel and raised the sword to strike. Castiel let out a fearful shout, but it was unwarranted. Dean had raised the blade and sliced the rope that had been around Meg’s throat. The girl let out a gasp as she pulled the noose off her throat with her free hand. She then untied the one that was secured to the iron gate. Once she was free, Dean threw the rapier into the water. He grabbed the small woman by the shoulder and shoved her toward Castiel.

          “Take her,” Dean instructed softly, his voice cracking with emotions. Tears were in his eyes again. Castiel was going to leave him again – he knew it. But this time, Dean was going to do the right thing and let him go. “Forget me,” he whispered, not daring to look at his beautiful Angel of Music. “Forget all of this.”

          Dean turned away from the two of them, but saw Meg run to Castiel out of the corner of his eyes. _He’ll be happy with her,_ he tried to convince himself. _They’ll get married and have beautiful children . . . She can give him so much more than I can._

          As Dean started toward his organ, the tears were now flowing freely down his cheeks. His voice rose again, echoing throughout the labyrinth. “LEAVE ME ALONE! TAKE THE BOAT AND LEAVE ME HERE!” He reached the organ and put his hands on either side of the instrument for support as his body began to heave with sobs. “SWEAR TO ME NEVER TO TELL . . . OF THIS SECRET YOU KNOW . . .” he screamed between his mangled sobs. “ _OF THIS ANGEL IN HELL!_ ” He slams his hand down on the organ keys making an awful sound. Dean lets out another agonized cry and collapses to his knees. “ _GO NOW AND LEAVE ME!_ ”

          There was splashing behind him as Meg and Castiel moved through the water. Dean was so sure that they – both of them of them – were fleeing. And then, Dean felt a hand grip his shoulder. It was too large to be Meg’s. He turned around and through his blurry vision, he could make out Castiel standing beside him.

          “Dean Winchester,” Castiel said sternly, placing his other hand on the scarred side of Dean’s face. “I am not going anywhere.”

          Confused, hopeful, and sad all at once, Dean stared at him with a look of disbelief and joy. “C- Castiel?” he choked out.

          The boy nodded. “Yes,” he answered, pointing to the ring that Dean had placed on his finger earlier that evening.

          Dean smiled through his tears. “Castiel . . .” he laughed quietly. And then he sang in a hoarse, but still very beautiful voice.

 

“ _I love you._ ”

 

          And then there was a small click. Both men looked over to see Meg standing in the shallows with a pistol in her hands. Her hands shook as she gripped the weapon with white knuckles. “Get away from that _murderer_ , Castiel!”

          Dean began to shove his angel away from him; he knew that Meg was aiming the gun at _him_ , not Castiel. However, the blue-eyed boy stubbornly stuck to Dean’s side. “Meg,” Castiel said softly, gently. “Meg, please put the gun down.”

          “No!” she snapped, taking a small step forward. “Not until you come with me! Castiel, I love you! I . . . I can make you happy! I can give you a child – a son! Can he – another _man_ – give you that? Do you want to live in sin with this miserable creature for the rest of your life?”

          Castiel stared at her, but not in shock. Instead, his crystalline eyes were cold and hard. “I love him, Meg,” he said quietly.

          Dean’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. For the first time in many, many years, Dean smiled. He truly, genuinely smiled out of pure joy. _He loves me! He loves me!_

          Meg shook her head, her brown eyes desperate. “No, you don, Castiel! Look at him! He’s an ugly, terrible monster! He has brainwashed, you Castiel! From the moment this demon from hell laid a hand on you, you were lost! But you don’t have to be anymore. I can free you from his spell! Please believe me that he is evil! Even his own brother, Sam, is gathering a group of men to come track down this murderer!”

          Those words were like a punch in the gut. Sammy – his only comfort in a world of pain, bitterness, and rejection – had finally turned against him. _No,_ Dean thought, pursing his lips together, struggling to hold back tears. _I turned against him. He probably thinks I’m crazy . . . He probably things that I’ve finally snapped. Oh, Sammy . . . I’ve failed you. I’m so sorry. You, Castiel . . . I’ve let down the two most important people in my pathetic life._

          Even Castiel’s eyes widened at this piece of information. But then, he straightened up with confidence. “Meg . . .” he said, but his voice was still soft, a little defeated. “I know that he has killed people – Benny, for instance—”

          “And Raphael!” Meg shouted. Dean stared at her warily; there was a wild, desperate look in her eyes that made him uneasy. The sooner she put the gun down, the better.

          Castiel closed his eyes for a moment as that information sank in. “I know that he has killed,” the boy began again. “But I also know that he has been made . . . how he is by society. If Dean is a monster, it is because this world has made him one. He didn’t ask to get his face scarred! He didn’t ask to be humiliated and tormented for the scar on his face! I have seen a different side of Dean, Meg! I have seen the angel inside him, and I have seen who he _truly_ is. And, I love him for that! He is a genius! He’s a . . . He’s all I want, Meg.” His eyes then softened significantly and he gazed at her with a bit of remorse. “I love you, Meg . . .”

          Dean flinched as the words passed Castiel’s lips. Even after all the wonderful things his little angel had said, it still hurt. It was still painful to know that Castiel loved her too.

          “Then come with me!” Meg begged, his cheeks glistening with tears.

          Castiel shook his head. “I love you as a friend. You’re like a sister to me. I realize that now . . . I love you, and I don’t want anything to happen to you . . . but I am no _in_ love with you.”

          The woman blinked a few times, her entire body shaking as she began to understand his words. “Castiel . . .” she whimpered.

          Dean watched the scene play out, stunned. _This can’t be real . . . this can’t . . . This is too good to be true!_ His disbelief only grew stronger when Castiel looked away from his childhood hand and took Dean’s hand. The blue-eyed angel looked up at the Phantom with a soft, loving gaze. “Dean, if Sam is coming, we need to get out of here,” he said. “Say the word, and I will follow you.”

          The Phantom of the Opera was speechless. _This is a dream,_ Dean thought mournfully. _This is just a dream. Castiel would never love someone like me._ But it was too real. It _was_ real, and it left Dean reeling. “Oh, Castiel,” he whispered. His voice betrayed how happy – how overcome with emotion he was.

          The boy smiled and squeezed his hand. “Yes, Angel?”

          Dean smiled widely and opened his mouth to say more.

          Then, everything fell apart.

          In a millisecond, all of Dean’s dreams were shattered.

          An ear-splitting sound went off – a loud bag that made Dean’s ears ring. An then he was falling backwards. His back hit the ground with a loud thud. It took Dean a few moments to snap out of the daze he went he hit the hard stones. He sat up slowly, his eyes scanning the alcove in confusion. Meg hadn’t moved – she stood where she’d been before.

          But now, he face was ghostly white.

          And she held a smoking gun.

          That’s when Dean saw Castiel lying a few feet away, blood gushing from a hole in his chest.


	21. No One Would Listen

          Dean made no sound. He didn’t yell, or scream, or cry, or sob – that would come later. At that moment in time, Dean was in both shock and denial. _This is a dream,_ he thought. _This is just a sick, twisted dream._ He stared at Castiel’s body, his eyes slowly filling with tears. Any joy and happiness he might have felt was drained from his body. _He’s not dead . . . He is not dead._

          “Oh my God,” Meg said softly, dropping the pistol on the stone floor. “Castiel!?” She ran toward him, collapsing on the ground next to his body. Meg let out a strangled sob and covered her mouth with her hand. “CASTIEL!” She shook his body violently, trying to elicit some kind of response.

          But it was too late.

          Dean crawled over, then. His stomach was twisted in a painful knot, and he had a physical pain in his chest. He stared at Castiel’s lifeless face, his mouth open slightly. The blue eyes that had been staring at him with love only moments ago were now permanently closed. His face was pale – almost grayish in color. And yet, Dean thought he looked . . . peaceful. _He’s gone . . ._ Dean thought, finally seeming to acknowledge this fact. _My angel . . . My angel is gone._

          And then, Dean began to sob. His entire body shook as he did so, and his voice reverberated off the stone walls. He covered his face with his hands and let out a heartbroken wail. “ _CASTIEL!”_

Meg stood suddenly. She walked over the pistol on the floor and took the gun in her hands once more. “I killed him,” she cried to herself. Her soft voice could barely be heard over Dean’s loud lament. “I did this . . . I killed Castiel . . .” And with that, Meg pressed the barrel of the gun to the side of her head and pulled the trigger.

 

\- - - -

 

          Sam, Balthazar, Kevin, Gabriel, and Zachariah made their way swiftly through the labyrinth. Each held guns, preparing themselves for the worst. Balthazar was at Sam’s right hand, his entire body filled with unease. Something didn’t feel right – not that having your best friend kidnapped by a psychotic musical genius _would_ feel _right_ , of course.

          “ _CASTIEL!_ ” a voice suddenly roared through the tunnels. The five men came to a halt and listened closely. About thirty seconds later, a gunshot sounded.

          Balthazar’s gut clenched in fear. Sam grabbed the older man’s arm and jerked him forward. “C’mon!” he shouted to the others, sprinting down the narrow passage. Balthazar followed close on Sam’s heels. After what seems like an eternity to the dancer, they reached what appeared to be a small, underground lake. A metal gate divided the lake in the middle, keeping the men from what lay on the opposite shore.

          Through the metal bars, Balthazar could make out a small alcove that was filled with candles. Not only that, but it seemed to be furnished as well. Then he realized: this was the Phantom’s lair. This was where he dwelt beneath the opera house.

          Sam walked over to a nearby wall and pressed on one of the stones. There was a faint sound that reached Balthazar’s ears that almost sounded like gears grinding against each other. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the metal gate rise out of the water. Not waiting for the others to follow, Sam jumped into the water. Balthazar didn’t hesitate and followed . . . and then immediately regretted it. The water was dreadfully cold and seemed to drain the warmth out of the dancer’s body. Jos teeth began to chatter, and he began to question all the decisions he made that brought him to this point.

          As they got closer to the lair, and Balthazar actually _saw_ what was there waiting for them, he nearly wretched. Meg Masters lay on the stones at the edge of the lake. Half of her head was gone – blown off. Blood and chunks of flesh and brain tissue were spilled out onto the stones, staining them crimson. Balthazar had to turn away from the sight, horrified and disgusted.

          “Dean?” Sam called hesitantly. By now, the other men had entered the water and had seen Meg’s body. Balthazar heard someone vomit at the sight and didn’t blame them. He still felt sick. Sam pursed his lips together in a thin line as his blue-green eyes scanned the alcove. “Dean!”       

          After a few moments of eerie silence, a soft voice began to sing. The voice was not pleasant to listen to – the person that was doing the signing was clearly crying as he did so. However, the raw emotion in the singer’s voice chilled Balthazar to the bone.

 

“ _No one would listen._

_No one but him,_

_Heard as the outcast hears._

_Shamed in to solitude,_

_Shunned by the multitude,_

_I learned to listen._

_In the dark, my heart heard music._

_I longed to teach the world,_

_Rise up and meet the world._

_No one would listen._

_I alone could hear the music._

_Then at last, a voice in the gloom_

_Seemed to cry, ‘I hear you!_

_I hear your fears,_

_Your torment and your tears!’_

_He saw my loneliness . . ._

_Shared in my emptiness . . ._

_No one would listen._

_No one but him_

_Heard as the outcast hears . . ._

_No one would listen._

_No one but him,_

_Heard as the outcast hears._ ”

 

          When the song came to an end, Balthazar saw Sam move deeper into the alcove. He walked along a small path that led into a separate section of the lair. The dancer followed, glad to be out of the icy water and away from the gruesome sight of Meg’s body.

          The two men entered a smaller section of the alcove that contained a bed and other furniture like bedside tables, an armoire, and numerous candelabras. At first, Balthazar looked around at the room in wonder, but then noticed the man on the bed.

          He was sitting there, crying quietly. But his face – his face made Balthazar quiver in fear. The man – the _Phantom_ – wore no mask and was hideous. The right side of his face looked to have been burned so badly that almost all of the skin had been singed off. Bone, tendons, and muscle were all exposed to the air. But Balthazar had very little time to be truly horrified by his appearance for he saw the lifeless body of his best friend lying on the bed.

          “NO!” Balthazar shouted, shoving past Sam and rushing toward the bed. The Phantom flinched at his approach but made no attempt to stop him. “Cas! CAS!?” Balthazar screamed, his voice cracking. He shook him, tears overflowing from his eyes.

          “Good God,” Sam breathed, staring at Castiel’s body. Then, his eyes flew to Dean. “What happened?!” The next thing Balthazar knew, the 6’4 choreographer had his brother by the shirt collar. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

          “Nothing,” Dean answered in a soft, resigned voice.

          “THEN HOW DID HE DIE?” Sam demanded, shaking the Phantom violently.

          “Meg,” he snapped in response, jerking away from Sam’s hold. “She . . . She had a gun and tried to shoot me, but . . .” he trails off, shaking his head and wiping away some of the tears on his face. “Castiel got in the way . . . After she saw that she’d killed . . . h- him instead of me, she . . . she took her own life.”

          Sam was quiet then, his own eyes growing moist. “Damn it,” he hissed under his breath. He pounded his fists against a nearby wall as he screamed, “DAMN IT ALL!”

          Balthazar looked at the pale face of the man he considered a brother and cried.

          Castiel Novak was dead.

          The Opera Populaire was burning to the ground.

          And the Phantom of the Opera was finally truly and completely broken.

 

\- - - -

 

          Sam watched as Dean headed out of the bedroom. “I  . . . I put him on the bed,” Dean whispered, as if that mattered. His voice was choked with tears. “I couldn’t l- leave him on the fl- floor.” He paused, staring at the stone wall before him. “He- he’s dead, Sammy. My Castiel is dead. My Angel is dead. My only reason to live is . . . gone.”

          The choreographer did not know how to respond to that. What could he possibly say to console him? He knew that if something were to happen to Jessica – if he were to lose her in that way – he didn’t know what he would do. He would never forgive himself. He didn’t think he would ever able to be happy again.

          Dean let out another small sob before putting both of his hands on a nearby wall for support. Sam’s heart wrenched as he heard his brother sing softly.

 

“ _You alone could make my song take flight . . ._

 _It’s over now, the Music of the Night!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, this song is called "No One Would Listen" and it was written by Andrew Llyod Webber for the 2004 movie (I think). You can find the video of the Gerard Butler phantom singing it on YouTube. Personally, I love the song and I think you should give it a listen even if you hate Gerard's phantom.


	22. Love Never Dies

 

**Paris, 1903**

* * *

 

Sam Winchester stared at the music box in his lap and let out a small sigh. He remembered everything so vividly – the bodies of Meg and Castiel, the way Dean had sobbed for hours on end, his own agony over the loss of his good friend. Sam had managed to talk Gabriel and Zachariah about pressing charges against Dean saying that he was mentally unstable. While the owners were furious and demanded reparations for their theatre (which the Winchesters supplied from their own pockets), they agreed. About a week after Castiel’s death, Dean disappeared. Sam didn’t know where he went, what happened to him, or if he was dead or alive.

Thirty-three years later, Sam was in his mid-sixties and was plagued with arthritis. The doctors said it was a result of many years of strenuous physical activity and that he would be bound to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. While devastated by the news, Sam was so grateful to have his beautiful wife, Jessica at his side. They had gotten married a few years after the disaster at the opera house. They had invited Dean to the wedding and though he did not formally appear, Sam could sense his presence throughout the service and the reception. He had been there, but just didn’t care to announce it.

Jessica sat beside him now. The auction had ended about a half hour ago and the Winchesters were now in their carriage heading to the outskirts of Paris to visit a certain cemetery. Sam couldn’t help but smile as Jessica took his hand in hers. “How are you, darling?” he asked quietly.

“I’ve been better,” he confessed. “I just . . . I can’t believe it’s been thirty-two years since it happened.”

She nodded in agreement and stroked the back of his hand with her thumb. “I know you miss them – Castiel and your brother,” she whispered. “I know it hurts you to know that you couldn’t save either of them. But I don’t think they wanted to be saved, Sam.”

He nodded, knowing there was truth in her words. “I know, Jess . . . I just wish I could have done more.”

His wife leaned over and pressed her lips to his cheek softly. “You did all you could – you did more than any other person would have.”

The carriage came to a halt with a small jerk. Sam let out a deep breath and sat up a little straighter. The coachman opened the door to the carriage just moments later. With the help of the coachman and Jessica, Sam slipped into his wheelchair. He thanked them both and gave the coachman a few francs.

Jessica instructed the coachman to wait for them to return and then wheeled her husband into the cemetery. It was the middle of January, and the ground was dusted with snow. The Winchesters were silent as they made their way to the grave of Castiel Novak. He was buried beside his father; Dean and Sam had paid for a large, grand headstone to mark his grave so it was difficult to miss. They had visited his grave many times, but they had rarely gone on the anniversary of his death.

Today was the exception. Sam had been planning to visit the grave later in the week, but he knew that Castiel would want Dean’s music box.

Sam blinked away tears as Castiel’s grave came into view. Even now, just seeing it made his chest ache. _Oh, Castiel . . ._ he thought sadly. _I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you._ Jessica pushed him up to the grave and put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

The former choreographer put one of his hands over hers before pushing himself up using the armrests of the chair. Jessica rushed forward and grabbed his arm just to keep him steady if needed. Sam stiffly walked over to the headstone, his legs groaning in protest as he did so. His knees had been killing him for years, and walking never helped. When he reached the headstone, he used it to steady himself.

Sam placed the music box on the base of the large marker and then paused, something catching his eye. He looked over and nearly fell over in shock at what he saw.

A red rose was lying on the base of the headstone. Roses were odd enough to see in a cemetery let alone a red one. But that wasn’t the most stunning part about it.

A black ribbon was tied around the dark green stem.

Dean was still out there.

And thirty-two years later, his love for Castiel Novak hadn’t faded; it would never die. Dean would never be able to get over the loss of the one human being besides his brother that had ever treated him with kindness. He would never forget that beautiful, blue-eyed angel that had been his muse for years.

No, his love for his Angel of Music would never die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This is it. This is the end. 
> 
> I feel like my life has lost it's meaning. xD Then again, I feel that way every time I finish writing something.
> 
> But I really can't believe it's over!
> 
> First of all, I want to thank every single one of you for reading. I would especially like to thank all of you that have commented. I always try to respond to your comments. If I ever missed your comment or didn't reply, I am so sorry! I really don't mean to look over them. I love reading them -- they bring a smile to my face, and warm my heart. You guys are the reason I finished this story. 
> 
> When I posted this story, I didn't expect any kind of response. I know that this kind of crossover is odd. I thought that I might get maybe two or three comments and like 300 views. Guys, this story has over SIXTY comments and OVER 1000 VIEWS! THAT IS INSANE! I can't thank you guys enough for making this happen!
> 
> I also want to publicly apologize for ending this story the way I did. I know that these kind of endings are not ideal, but I thought about it for a long time and decided that it was better to have it this way. I couldn't really write a sequel to this. I COULD have by using the Phantom of the Opera's sequel, Love Never Dies, but it is not popular. The storyline is very forced and kind of . . . well, crappy. The music is beautiful, but everything else is . . . *shudders* So I decided it would be kinder to end it now. I didn't have the heart to have Castiel leave with Meg, but I knew I couldn't have him stay with Dean either.
> 
> So this is what we are left with.
> 
> Again, I am sorry for any pain I might have caused. xD 
> 
> But I am so glad that you have stuck with me thus far and have enjoyed my story. Again, I can't tell you how thankful I am.
> 
> I hope you decide to check out my other stories as well -- Supernatural High, Dean's Babysitting Hell, A Supernatural Five Nights At Freddy's, etc. I would really appreciate it if you take a look at them and give them a read!
> 
> Thank you again. I love you all so much! This has been such a fantastic journey, and I hope this isn't truly the end for us!


End file.
